


Genesis

by aimmyarrowshigh



Category: One Direction (Band), Union J (Band), X Factor (UK) RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Bonding, Comeplay, Gender Related, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Social Commentary, Some Perceived Dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 13:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 139,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So to the Alpha Man came God’s hand, and in His protection the Alpha Man fell into a deep sleep. The Lord God cradled him as He took one of the Alpha Man’s rib bones and closed its place with the dust of stars and the salt of the sea. He fashioned from the Alpha Man’s rib bone a second in His image, hollow but for love for God and love for the Alpha Man, and that was the omega man. When his eyes opened for the first time the Lord God blew dust from the Earth into his sight and blinded him but to love for God and love for the Alpha Man and He did tether them with dust and salt as sat in the Alpha Man’s wound.</p><p>George doesn’t believe in all that catechism anymore, but in the grand scheme of things, and in Clevedon, it doesn’t matter much.</p><p>This is a really plotty, meta, metaphorical, semi-dystopian-but-following-X-Factor-timeline-and-with-a-happy-ending, crackships-ahoy Alpha/beta/omega fic. Alpha!Harry/omega!George.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unevenfootsteps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unevenfootsteps/gifts), [unapologetic_thirst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unapologetic_thirst/gifts).



**Author** : **Fandom** : One Direction/Union J  
 **Story Title** : "Genesis"  
 **Summary** : _So to the Alpha Man came God’s hand, and in His protection the Alpha Man fell into a deep sleep. The Lord God cradled him as He took one of the Alpha Man’s rib bones and closed its place with the dust of stars and the salt of the sea. He fashioned from the Alpha Man’s rib bone a second in His image, hollow but for love for God and love for the Alpha Man, and that was the omega man. When his eyes opened for the first time the Lord God blew dust from the Earth into his sight and blinded him but to love for God and love for the Alpha Man and He did tether them with dust and salt as sat in the Alpha Man’s wound._

_George doesn’t believe in all that catechism anymore, but in the grand scheme of things, and in Clevedon, it doesn’t matter much._

This is a really plotty, meta, metaphorical, semi-dystopian-but-following-X-Factor-timeline-and-with-a-happy-ending, crackships-ahoy Alpha/beta/omega fic. Alpha!Harry/omega!George.

**Main Character/Relationship** : Harry Styles/George Shelley  
 **Other mentioned pairings** : Josh/JJ, Jaymi/Olly; short scenes of George/Parisa, George/Caroline; mentions of Harry/Louis, Harry/Caroline, Zayn/Perrie, Louis/others, Rylan/James, Nick Grimshaw/others. Typical for me, a lot of side pairings and past!pairings and vaguely-mentioned-sometimes pairings.  
 **Rating** : NC-17/M  
 **Overall Warnings** : Explicit sexual content (slash _and het_ ); use of sex toys; graphic sexual dialogue. Knotting. Some mpreg kink/dialogue. A lot of come. Just, like, a lot of it. Ham-fisted metaphors.  
 **Chapter Warnings** : Sexual content (het [penetrative PiV, pegging]); use of sex toys; graphic sexual dialogue.  
 **Chapter/Story Wordcount** : **10,800** /100,000  
 **Disclaimer** : I don't own anything. No claim of knowledge or veracity is made towards anyone in the story and no aspersions or claims of character are to be inferred. We have no connection nor permissions from One Direction, X-Factor, Crown Management, RCA, Sony, ITV, or AlphaDog Management, OR SyCo Inc., Columbia Records, or any other affiliated parties. No libel intended. Also, I'm aware that this is a crackship, call off your hounds.  
 **Notes** : I hope that you enjoy this? Harry comes into the story in the next chapter, don't worry. :) But still please read this one so things make sense next week! I'm planning to update every Wednesday around midnight-ISH. This is my ~real solo-written fic since MYEYNL, and I'm nervous about it, but I'm a thousand percent grateful to **colazitron** , **alifeofourown** , and **eroticabot@tumblr** for reading this over for me and letting me bounce headcanon off of them, and to **unapologetic_thirst** and **unevenfootsteps** for prompting/requesting this AU in the first place! :-*

** Genesis **

__  
**Genesis II.ii.**  


_In the beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth: the Earth first, then stars, and last the sun, tied to the Earth and made to serve it._

_The Earth grew out of jagged stone and soil, but no shrub yet appeared nor any plant sprung up, and God sent rains to the Earth to bear fruit in the seeds and grow. The oceans bore salt and the streams ran from glen to valley, yet still no seedlings blossomed and none but God could see the Earth’s beauty. He created the stars from grains of sea-salt and set them in the sky to watch over Earth and praise the good of God’s work there, but still, no thing had yet to grow._

_From the fire of the stars, God created the sun, and He tied it to the Earth with dust and salt. And the sun loved the Earth as it loved God, and loved none others; and from the sun, the Earth grew green and from the green God forged life, Alpha Man from leaves and sap, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and He was made in God’s own image._

_Fortified by the sun and the love of God, the Alpha Man made from his salt a multitude and set them in the gardens and the forests to watch over him and praise the good of God’s work in His form. The multitudes grew by multitude and multitude and they farmed the Earth, graced by Lord God with all kinds of trees to grow out of the ground and all kinds of animals to swim in the oceans and streams. Soon the multitudes numbered as the stars, and God in His image the Alpha was praised well._

_Yet still, the Alpha Man often to the sun and asked of God how to best praise Him. The multitudes loved God and praised Him but worked to distraction, tending the Earth and tilling its fields. God in His wisdom and kindness would be praised with a full heart as the Alpha Man could praise Him so long as there might be a dozen with the full glory of Him shining on them in His image._

_So to the Alpha Man came God’s hand, and in His protection the Alpha Man fell into a deep sleep. The Lord God cradled him as He took one of the Alpha Man’s rib bones and closed its place with the dust of stars and the salt of the sea. He fashioned from the Alpha Man’s rib bone a second in His image, hollow but for love for God and love for the Alpha Man, and that was the omega man. When his eyes opened for the first time the Lord God blew dust from the Earth into his sight and blinded him but to love for God and love for the Alpha Man and He did tether them with dust and salt as sat in the Alpha Man’s wound._

_That is why a omega leaves his father and mother and is united to his Alpha, and they become one flesh._

* * *

George doesn’t believe in all that catechism anymore, but in the grand scheme of things, and in Clevedon, it doesn’t matter much. Things might be different if he lived in Bristol – definitely different in Brighton, and at least he doesn’t live in America, judging by what he’s seen on the news and the internet – but as it stands, he lives in Clevedon and although basing hiring on bodily orientation’s been banned since before George was born, he still somehow can’t get a better job here than a barista. Serving. Servile.

Suck.

And it’s so stupid, really, because Alphas don’t live in _Clevedon_. They don’t have to live in Clevedon, they can get jobs anywhere and into whatever schools they want and no one who didn’t have to would stay in _Clevedon_. Fucking everyone is a crotchety beta OAP with terrible teeth and an unintelligible Brizzley accent.

“George!” 

He blinks awake with a shattered jolt. After nestling into his forearms for a fifteen-minute lunchtime nap, the fluorescents in the break room are entirely too bright. George groans, rubbing his eyes, and kicks the leg of his hard plastic chair as he trudges over to his little locker for his apron. 

His watch beeps insistently at him as he pulls the apron over his head and smooths his hair, and George pops his Wednesday pill out of its plastic compartment without even looking (he knows Poliwrath is on Wednesday, because Wednesdays are terrible and Poliwrath is not). George has been able to swallow his suppressors dry since he was thirteen, even though the pills are the size of hornets.

“George!”

Tony, George’s current boss, is big in a way that only betas are. He’s a nice guy, though, and he doesn’t let people push George around so long as he’s looking. It’s an admirable trait, as far as George is concerned, and it’s not like it’s something Tony makes a big deal about because that would be sort of pushing George around, but it’s a solid, reliable kind of hum of protection around George’s dull days. It’s a paycheck as good as anyone else’s, too, although George has been here longer than Charley and really, he should have been made shift supervisor. It won’t happen; he’d have to stay late nights to lock up and count out the safe alone, and as much as people pretend like it’s safe for everyone these days, everyone knows it isn’t. He’s the de facto supervisor, anyway. Does most of the training. And it’s not like it’s George’s dream job, so he doesn’t care that much.

“Sorry, sorry,” he yawns, then pats his hair down and slides to the registers. “Fell asleep.”

“Y’alright?” Tony’s eyebrows are furrowed.

“Yeah, I was just up late,” George assures him. “Noodling with my guitar. Got a new one for an early birthday gift. For luck.”

Tony gives George a smile at that, but nods meaningfully to the line of labeled paper cups awaiting drinks as they switch places. George prefers it behind the machines, making cappuccinos and flat whites, to making change and light conversation. He’s good at both, he just likes the way coffee smells. Even after all this time.

“You’re still going for it, then?” Tony sounds concerned. He even pats George’s shoulder paternally. “S’brave.”

“It’s not brave,” George says. “It’s just a thing. I’ve as much chance as anyone, don’t I?”

The whole revolutionary concept behind the X Factor, when it began nine years ago, was that it would allow ‘anyone’ the chance to get a record deal: teens, mums, granddads, boy bands, girl groups, pub singers, omegas. That was the big publicity push – even omegas could audition, where they couldn’t have on Pop Idol or Popstars or any of the rest. Britain’s Got Talent still doesn’t allow it. _Anyone can have the X-factor_ , as the adverts said.

Very few omegas made it to boot camp. Even fewer made it past there, but there had been some to get as far as judges’ houses, and George had watched them all with as keen an eye as the rest of the viewing public, looking for tells, looking for anything that made them lesser than their Alpha or beta competitors. In reality, there probably wasn’t anything amiss, but on telly, perception is everything. A missed note is omega unreliability; a complaint is omega overemotional hormones. A wink is desperation; no wink is fearfulness. And of course, it’s an uphill battle anyway, because unlike Alphas, omegas just aren’t seen as born to be stars, born charismatic, born talented. 

But even though only a handful had made it onto the live shows proper, and usually parts of ill-fated groups, a kernel of George wants to believe that somewhere, the producers of the show believe their own tagline.

_Anyone can have the x-factor._

And he does. George thinks he does, anyway. At least more than most of the people he’s seen audition; those awful twins who fought onstage that year, or the opera singers warbling their way through outdated Take That. He doesn’t fancy himself an Ed Sheeran, or anything – but Ed’s only a beta and he’s done well for himself, hasn’t he. 

George knows that he has something else going for him, too, if it strikes the right people’s fancy. He has omega looks, now that he’s grown out of his awkward-goose hormonal teenage Ugly omega Duckling Phase. (His mum’s told him a hundred times if she’s told him once that people shouldn’t call it that, and that he was never _ugly_ , but George can’t help parroting it. It’s both catchy and a bit true.)

But he’s finally lost all of the padding borne of his omega hormones taking over, and his bones have grown long and elegant and _small_. If you’d told George two years ago, looking in the mirror, that he would really grow out into the thin bird-hollow limbs of the omegas he saw in the wings waiting for their Alphas to leave stages and podiums and rallies and theatres, he wouldn’t have believed it. But the proof is there in the way every patron who passes through his line at Costa looks at him: omegas are Other, almost as much as Alphas, and in Clevedon, nearly as rare. First there’s the attraction, the intrigue, the leer, the shy smile, the flirtation, the bite of the lip, the downward flick of the eyes. And then there’s the realization:

George is no Alpha. 

His bones don’t carry that weight. His scent doesn’t have that warmth, the supposed dark caramel smell of an Alpha. (George doesn’t know. He doesn’t know any more than he’s read in his schoolbooks and on the internet, and neither of those is scratch ‘n’ sniff.) George isn’t sure what he smells like – the books always gloss over that, except to warn about the power of an omega in Heat. _The missing piece of an Alpha_ , his schoolbooks had said, _and they are insensible until they claim it back_.

George senses the eyes on him before he even finishes tamping his espresso. When he looks up, the beta across the bar is staring at him, ruddy nose sniffing in a way he must think is covert when it’s anything but. George smiles pleasantly, pulling the steam wand for a flat white, but when the smile doesn’t stop the sniffing, he has to clear his throat. He doesn’t mind the stares anymore – not now that they’re because he is, objectively, beautiful, rather than a pudge kid with swollen cheeks and a perpetually runny nose – but he’d like to pretend at work, at least, that he’s as commonplace as anyone else. As human as anyone else, anyone beta, anyway. Anyone in Clevedon.

The man doesn’t even startle when he stops staring at George’s lips. His gray eyes just flick up to meet George’s and he shrugs a shoulder. “Can’t blame me. You got somebody at home to take care of that?”

Can’t blame him indeed.

“Your flat white,” George says, ignoring everything else and handing over the drink. 

“What time you get off?” the man presses. He smirks. “I mean that both ways.”

“Hey, now,” Tony barks over George’s head. “We have a line.” He gives George a meaningful look. “Back to work.”

George nods, shoulders curling down at the tone like he has a tail that can tuck under after chastisement, and demurs his eyes down to hide behind the chrome of his machine. 

So he’s already scenting.

Fuck.

There are only two hours left in his shift. That’s plenty of time to finish things up here and get home. If it’s not, Tony will let him go early, but George would rather not – he really needs the paycheck. He’s saving up for a flat in Bristol proper. His mum thinks it’s not safe, but Dad thinks that it’s a good enough idea. It might be easier for George that way, anyhow, not having to deal with a house full of people all the time. And in Bristol, he could find someone, if he wanted. That’s the subtext of the conversations. 

(George doesn’t want. What he wants is not to have to get the flat in Bristol because he’ll be on the X Factor and get a flat in London rent-free for a year with its bill footed by Syco or Sony. But he’s realistic, and knows there will only be a few of those and thirty-thousand-odd applicants for the spots.)

It _would_ be easier to live alone, is all. If he doesn’t get London, anyway. His whole family are betas. It’s different for them. And they love him, he knows that. But god, it’d be easier to deal with a Heat when he doesn’t have to listen to ten pairs of feet storming up and down the halls for a week. He knows – he’s trying to know, trying to learn and unlearn and find out more about what people who didn’t go to parochial school in Clevedon think – that it’s not shameful, the Heat. (But it’s still embarrassing, isn’t it, scenting everywhere and wetting the sheets and blacking out the curtains. It’s just so _obvious_.)

Ten Costa Lights later, the bell on the door is drowned out by Parisa’s yodeling entrance. “Alright, Tony, got a caramel shortbread for me?”

“Always,” Tony says, and he gives George the nod. George scoots over to the pastry case and liberates a shortbread square into a paper sack before heading into the back room to hang up his apron and collect his belongings. He double-checks the whiteboard on the wall to make sure that it’s clearly labeled that he will be gone for longer than usual. 

He pauses before leaving and takes a marker to write _George S’s audition :)_ on its date next week, just so nobody gets the wrong idea.

His audition.

His audition is next week.

George exhales slowly and blinks past the dull, twitching pain starting behind his eyes and focuses on that. His audition is next week.

Parisa gives him a smile when he comes around the counter again to clock out and shake hands with Tony, as ever, before he leaves.

“Ready?” She asks, and then, with a mostly-disguised sniff, “Y’alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” George promises her.

Tony slaps George’s shoulder. “Good luck, mate. Make us proud.”

George giggles. “Yeah, I will. I’ll wear a Costa badge.”

With a ruffle of his hair and a _go, you_ , George hops over the counter and Parisa catches him with an arm around his waist.

Her fingertips slip beneath the edge of George’s t-shirt and rest on the skin of his waist. “Long day?”

George shrugs. “It was alright.”

“No dickheads for a change?”

“Nah, of course there were dickheads,” George snorts. “It’s real life, isn’t it? There’ll always be dickheads. I can’t do anything about that.”

“Yeah, but you said they’re worse when you’re – and no offense, but I could smell you as soon as I walked in the shop.”

“You don’t have to come by and help me out.” George shrugs. (It doesn’t honestly make much difference whether Parisa is there or not. She’s only a beta.) “I have toys.”

“I know; I bought them,” Parisa laughs. “I don’t mind it. I didn’t say it was a bad smell, I’m just saying, maybe next time, I pick you up a few hours earlier.”

“Hopefully,” George says, sliding into the passenger seat of her car, “There won’t be a next time. Hopefully, by the next time, I’ll be a popstar.”

Parisa gives George a brilliant grin, white teeth and lips tinted with the just-right shade of gloss and eyebrows arched just-so. Parisa could pass for an Alpha, at least through a television screen. “Hopefully we both will, then.” She trails her fingertips in tickling circles over the warm skin of George’s side and he giggles, ducking his head as the goosebumps rise. His Heat never starts until the sun’s set, but as they get closer, his skin is more and more sensitive. The light scratching of Parisa’s acrylic fingernails is going to drive him mad even before they get back to his dad’s house.

The sky is a bright, soft orange overhead and the late June air hangs heavy and wet with the mossy smell of the ocean, as it had for weeks, the need to rain swelling the sky and certain to crack in the next hours. The sea out in the distance at the pier sounds angry. Its waves dig into the pebbled shoreline like fingers, stealing rocks and shells and abandoned toy spades into its charcoal-gray belly. A gull swoops at George and Parisa as they walk at a clip down the road, and while Parisa shoos it away and covers her hair, George throws it a bit of biscuit that’s turned up in his pocket.

A gust blows the gull and biscuit away and a long lock of Parisa’s hair into George’s face, and he shivers as he takes in the warm cocoa scent of her skin and sweat and perfume. Betas don’t smell like much, really – they don’t go into Heat and they don’t respond to it – but George likes her scent for her, same as he likes the rest of her, and they’ve been doing this so long that his cells all know what to expect from that dark chocolate scent.

Relief.

“Hey.” Parisa scratches at George’s hipbone. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah, I’m still good,” George assures her. “Still some time. And you have to make sure I eat first this time. And have water in my room.”

“I remember,” Parisa says. “I’ll keep you properly fed and watered. And look! I’m taking you for a walk!”

George scowls.

His dad’s house is a riot of light and noise as soon as George opens the front door. A fleet of kids steam past at full speed, all screaming, in pursuit of – something, and only one of them, little Archie, stops to hug George about the knees and holler _hiyahiyahiyabaskettidinnerbye-ya!_ before running knees-up down the corridor after the others.

George can’t help laughing at that even though the indoor lights are already beginning to hurt his eyes and the noise of the laughter and shouting and Spenny wailing and the television droning is buzzing into his skin like mosquitoes. He toes off his shoes and looks up at Parisa. “Basketti dinner?”

She grins back. “Sounds good. I do always like the Shelley specialty, Tesco’s tinned spag bol.”

“Erm, excuse you, it’s a Sainsbury’s Ready-Meal,” George snorts. Normally it’s something he does, actually, love, but the aroma of it is all wrong tonight; not what he wants, anyway. It’s pressing, the garlic and the browning red meat muscle of it. He can smell the blood off the ground round that used to be a cow, and it’s only copper and waste.

“Hey,” Parisa murmurs. She brushes George’s fringe out of his face. “You have to eat. I know that look.”

“I don’t want it,” George mumbles. His hands cup her waist and he hauls her up close where he’s starting to thicken as the sky outside fades into dusk blue. “’S’not what I need. You know what I need.”

“You have to eat first,” Parisa sighs. “You literally _just_ told me to make sure you eat. And I want you to do it before your eyes go this time; last time you got crumbs all in the bed and we got that rash.”

George buries his face in the curve of her neck, making a pathetic noise, but he knows that she’s right. He’s gone through Heat without any food before, and his ribs and the knobbles of his spine show even more than usual after. 

Parisa rubs his back. “Come on. Let’s get you fed.”

George whines, but he lets Parisa drag him by the hand through the house to the kitchen, where his dad is piling spaghetti into a serving dish. 

“How was work?” he asks, not looking up. He doesn’t even blink when a great crash reverberates through the walls from the living room and he yells, “Leo! Louisa! Stop whatever you’re doing to Annabelle!”

He does turn, though, when Parisa gets on tiptoe to kiss his cheek hello and reach over his shoulder into a cabinet for glasses to help set the table. George just slumps into his seat and covers his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Was alright.”

His father finally turns at that and rests a hand on the back of George’s bowed head after stowing the pasta on the table. “Are you alright, George?” His voice hushes, and he sounds a bit awkward as he asks, “Do you need your tablets?”

George’s cheeks flush pinker as he nods. It shouldn’t be embarrassing; all omegas take them going into their Heat. But his dad’s a beta, and he doesn’t really get it. So George has never felt really comfortable putting them on the shopping list. He does, because otherwise it means scenting all over the chairs and the sofa, and that’s even more embarrassing – he remembers from being twelve, the first time it happened, because no one in his family knew exactly how it would be. He’d stained the white cushions and ruined his jeans. 

His dad had left a copy of that schmaltzy omegas-coming-of-age book by Judy Blume on his bed the week after George’s Heat had passed, and that was almost worse. 

There are fingers scratching briefly through George’s hair, and then the sound of a glass hitting the table near his elbow. “Buck up, George. There’s still time for dinner before the sun’s set.”

George grumbles a little, but sits up and blinks in the lamplight. He swallows the pink tablets dry before draining the glass of water. He should make a note, later – next week – to keep a few in his regular daily pill case with his suppressors. Better than needing to make everything awkward by asking for them. Better than worrying about his pants at work, just in case. Buck up. Fuck off, more like.

George stays in his chair because he doesn’t quite want to stand up. Dad yells that dinner is ready, and Parisa goes off to carry Spenny under one arm and Archie under the other over to the table. Dinner is a whirling haze of sharp odors and bright colored light. It tastes like cardboard in George’s mouth, the need to eat paling in comparison to the inconvenient and all-consuming need to _breed_. 

(He couldn’t anyway, even if he had an Alpha. That’s what the suppressors are for. There are adverts on late-night television for suppressors that take the Heat away for nearly a full year, but they always have side effects like cancer or increased risk of suicide or fountains of blood spewing from the eyes or spontaneous death. Almost worth it, but not quite.)

His family all conspicuously don’t mention that George’s plate is a pile of bare noodles and that his pupils are already growing wide. Usually his siblings crawl all over him and steal his food and insist that _George_ is the one who cuts up their meat or that _George_ is the one to refill their glasses. But they know what it means when his eyes are black. They don’t ask. Annabelle and Louisa fawn over Parisa and her false eyelashes instead. Leo cuts up carrots for Archie, and Archie lets him. Harriet takes over the dish-passing duties. They very carefully do not mention the sheen of sweat around George’s hairline. They dance around asking George why the meatballs, pink at the centers and usually his favorite food, seem to turn his face green almost as much as the dank allium bitterness coming off the garlic bread. George, in his turn, pretends not to notice the smallest of his siblings’ noses twitching and turning up at the scent of him.

By the time the rain starts, the sky is dark purple and George is shivering. “I have to – I can’t, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, George,” his Dad says. He looks sad, the way he always does when George starts to fall apart. “I put a case of bottled waters in your room. The curtains are taped.”

“Thanks,” George mutters, and he pushes back from the table. “Sorry, guys. Just – sorry.”

“It’s okay, George,” a little voice assures him. “Feel more better soon.”

George nods and feels his way for the wall. Parisa’s hand settles on the small of his back and the cool of it makes him shudder; she leads him down the corridor. George can smell her, every inch, even stronger than the blood-and-starch sticking to their clothing. 

George shudders, curling his fingers into fists. “Fuck.”

“Shh-shh.” There’s a familiar creak as his bedroom door opens. “Just one more minute.”

George whimpers and presses his hand hard over the wet spot at the front of his pants. “Need -- something.” As soon as the locks on the door click, George pushes Parisa up against the wall and sets his mouth against her neck, hands sliding up under her dress. “No pants?”

“I’ve learnt better,” Parisa says drily, but there’s a smile in her voice and she reaches down with steady hands to undo the buttons of George’s fly. 

As soon as his jeans have fallen down around his knees, he’s in her, balancing all of her weight between the creaking wood of the door and the aching bones of his hips. George grunts and growls and is _frustrated_.

omegas _can_ take betas, but they aren’t meant to. It’s not what they’re built for, and it’s not what George needs, it doesn’t do anything to diminish the creeping hot itch pinpricking its way through all of his nerves. A beta and omega together is just fucking. That isn’t what the Heat wants.

George bites Parisa’s shoulder as the first orgasm washes through him. It isn’t enough, but at least it’s almost pleasurable. He’s still hard after and can’t stop moving, pleading under his breath.

“Hey,” Parisa murmurs, sounding breathless. “Take it easy. Get your clothes off and get on the bed. You’re burning up.”

George frowns, squeezing at the base of his dick as he lets Parisa down. A sad echo of come dribbles out of the tip and he whimpers.

Parisa pauses from where she’s pulling her dress over her head and peers out at George from beneath its skirt. “If you just found an Alpha, it wouldn’t be such a big deal.”

George paws at his shirt, trying to get it off one-handed. “Can’t find one here.”

“Use a service,” Parisa says, taking pity on him and pulling his shirt over his head. “One of the ones with those adverts, with the Bonded pairs and the free trial.”

“No,” George whines, flopping back on the bed and squirming, legs spread and dick bobbing against his stomach. “I’d end up with a murderer or something; jesus, stop talking and just – just – god, _I need it_ , I’m dying.”

“You’re okay,” Parisa argues gently. She crawls up the bed enough to get one hand on George while she rummages around in his bedside table with the other. “Why’s it all just – are these Legos? Why are there only Legos in here now?”

“Had to move things around,” George mumbles. “Nosy family is nosy. Under – shit, under the mattress, just -- _fuck_ me already.”

Parisa rolls her eyes, but kisses George’s hip before she slides down to stick an arm between his mattress and bedframe. “It won’t help. You need an Alpha, George, or you’ll be getting too old to find a good one.”

“I don’t want one!” George snaps. “And it _helps_. You help. You do.” 

It’s not quite a lie, but verges on it. It doesn’t help with his Heat to have Parisa there, and he feels badly that she tries to take on some of what he’s going through, without fail, every month for nearly three years now – thirty-odd Heats – but there’s only so much that a beta can do for an omega in Heat, and since George is on suppressors, she can’t really do that, even. But it does help that he doesn’t have to be alone. He rolls onto his side enough to press his face into the gap beneath Parisa’s support arm, breathing her in deep even though she smells wrong. It’s still enough to coax the second orgasm out of him, spattering over his hipbone. “Just want you with me.”

Parisa gives George a sad, small smile and her arm emerges victorious from under the mattress, immense plug in hand. It’s wide and black and other than the curve, it’s the same all the way from nose to tail. Parisa had bought it for George’s eighteenth and he was still getting used to it – not the size but the shape, the wrongness of its straightness when he’s made for an Alpha’s knot. It’s still better than nothing, and both cost and status keep either him or Parisa from buying a better one anyway.

“Ready?” 

George groans in relief through clenched teeth and props himself up on his hands and knees, head bowed to keep his face pressed into the pillows. It feels like his blood is too hot for his veins, bubbling and sizzling through the capillaries until he’s feverish and faint, blood all rushed away from his brain so that he’s dizzy and simple and single-headed with his need to be bred, to do whatever he can to cool the Heat.

There’s one hand braced over the back of his hipbone as the head of the broad toy nudges into him. He’s wet, scenting enough that he can feel ghosts of it on the tops of his thighs, but he curls his hands around the sides of his headboard all the same just to have something to hold. It doesn’t hurt yet but it’s uncomfortable, and his bones are buzzing inside his skin with the warning that this isn’t right—

this isn’t an Alpha—

he’s missing a piece—

he is a missing piece—  
this isn’t the whole.

Parisa’s long hair tickles over George’s back as she bends down to kiss his tailbone. “You alright?”

George nods, still gritting his teeth. He’s full, at any rate, and that’s the best he’ll get. He’s still swimming in all the wrong scents, dark cherry and bitter wood and mahogany polish and the dust from beneath his mattress and the stale paper of his books faded from the light that poured in through his window whenever he wasn’t in Heat, when he could see light and not go blind. Parisa’s skin is too cold, but she’s there. And he trusts her.

So he is. “Alright.”

Parisa’s fingers creep around George’s sides, rubbing lightly just to calm him. “Do you want to get on your back?”

George’s heart speeds up in his chest but he nods shortly and lets Parisa guide him over flat on the mattress again so she can sit astride him. Before she sinks down, she blows a loose lock of hair out of her eyes and asks, “How many have you so far?”

“Three.” George swallows, closing his eyes. “Doesn’t work like that. Not a quota.”

Four hours later, Parisa pushes at George’s shoulder over her and he whines despondently, flopping onto his side onto wet sheets. He nudges his face into Parisa’s ribs, murmuring and needy, still hard and aching and already starting to go red. His hair is so damp around his face that it’s stuck to his skin in curling tendrils, and his huge black eyes are insensible with frustration and want and need need needneedneed.

Parisa winces as she sits up and runs her fingers over George’s forehead, pushing away wet slicks of hair, before arranging a pillow under his head in place of her ribs. “I’m sorry, George, I’m – I have to go home and sleep and shower forever and take so much paracetamol. I’m sorry; I just can’t take any more.”

George sobs into the pillow and pushes up onto his all-fours again, arching his back to present because he’s scenting around the black plug. His muscles are inflamed like they’ve been pulled like taffy and the stripe of white light edging beneath his door from the corridor is burning his watery eyes and _he needs to come he needs to be fucked hardhardharder he needs he needs he needs_. 

“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” Parisa murmurs. “I don’t know how you – ” She cuts herself off and shakes her head. “I’ll be back tomorrow night when it’s dark to check on you, okay?”

George bites the inside of his cheek and nods; he rubs down, rolling against the mattress, and whimpers high in his throat at the hot-wet-sticky-grit of the fabric against his bruised cock. “Uh-huh.”

There’s a soft pressure on the back of his head as Parisa kisses George’s hair. “You’re alright. I’ll put water on your bedside table before I leave. Hang in there.” She kisses his hair again. “Love you, Georgie.”

George doesn’t answer, but he can hear her fumbling around in the pitch-dark of his room to get back into her dress and find her shoes to leave. Her joints crack softly as she moves, and somewhere in a distant part of his brain deep down enough that he can still think about anything real – anything that _matters_ , George thinks with a vengeance – George commiserates. There’s a clink as she sets a glass of water down on his nightstand, and then George is burying his face in the pillow with a pained little wail as his room floods with light. The door clicks, and then he’s alone.

He keeps his face down in the pillow that only smells of himself and rubs against the mattress until he comes, and comes, and comes.

When Parisa comes by the next night, just like she promised, George’s face is smudged with tear tracks and his muscles are all shaking. He’s still hard. He’s still scenting. There are four days left.

“Drink your water,” she murmurs. “And here – did you sleep? I bought, I thought maybe a sleeping pill? Just try one in case there’s like, a reaction.”

There isn’t. Not even the intended. He stays awake, on fire, waiting. Parisa comes by every night until finally George is able to sleep, the hot-fever ache seeping out of his skin all at once like a storm breaking, leaving George battered and sore and with a pounding headache behind his eyes. It’s just after one in the morning when the Heat dissipates and George shivers, damp and naked on a mattress stripped of its sheets.

“Hey,” Parisa whispers. She rests her palm against his cheek. “You back in the room?”

George nods. He swallows limply and coils his arm over her waist. “Sleep.”

“Yeah, sleep,” Parisa agrees. “D’you need a shower first? Food? Anything?”

“Can’t move,” George mutters. “Jussleep. Love you.”

Lips flutter at the side of George’s eye, a tiny, fond, relieved kiss that he’s back to himself. “Sleep, and tomorrow, rehearse! And drive to Cardiff!”

A rush entirely unrelated to the pheromones of Heat or utter exhaustion ripples through George and he’s suddenly wide awake again: _this_ is the real missing piece of him, he thinks. Cardiff, or rather what’s waiting there. His audition. Music. A place for him in the life he wants, the way he wants things, and _fuck everyone_ if they think he needs to be an Alpha to be able to make something of himself. 

A long bath for his sore muscles, a shower to get off the remnants of come floating in the bath water, breakfast, his guitar. That’s all he needs. He may be exhausted and dehydrated and starving and so sore he can hardly bear the thought of moving, but he can handle it.

***

This is _it_.

George gives his mum a nod and lets Harriet give him one more good hug around the neck. Even from the wings, he can feel the soft sun of the stage lights and there are cameras on him already at every angle and out there, on that stage, there’s a microphone just for him. And forty thousand others, but the next five minutes are his. And his alone. This is his time.

Between the acts, the judges banter and the cameras reset and the tracks are queued and the audience rustles. It’s a mess of Alpha and beta and omega scents and food from the carts outside and the doughy sort of plastic powder smell of makeup and hairspray everywhere. George doesn’t need it, at least more than a lick of the mousse he’d put in at home in the morning after he’d soaked in the tub for two hours and taken three hot showers between egg sandwiches and cups upon cups of coffee. He’s going out there and people will either love him or hate him as he is.

Waiting in the queue outside had been overwhelming: hot sun and Welsh brogue and the crush of the crowd. People singing and dancing every second, beggars for the camera. And the mix of people, like George had never seen – young and old and light and dark and beta and omega and Alpha. So many Alphas, and George’s first whiff of that scent he’d been taught in words his whole life but knows, now, can’t be put into language. It is a dark caramel, but it isn’t. It’s like embers still on fire, the scent of molten glass, the potentiality of life pushing up through forest floors, the most decadent dessert, all at once. It’s everywhere, pushing in on George and his family and Parisa with hers on every angle. 

There are fully grown Alphas attached to their omegas, and George knows he’s staring. Some of them look like spouses. Some of them look like entourages. Some are slaves. There are unBonded Alphas who look back at him, too, and they’re all tall and steady and move smooth as jungle cats. George clutches his guitar close. And there are little Alphas, too, which George had barely even considered past _not wanting to have any_ , tiny beautiful kids with rosy cheeks and bossy voices, clinging to their parents’ legs. They stare at George, too, with their grubby little-kid fingers in their mouths, and George can only hope that all of his bathing was enough to get his Heat scent off him.

He’s already noticed eyes all day. He heard a lot of murmured _looks like Harry_ s, too, but he doesn’t, really. Harry Styles was young and softer when he was on the show, but he still had that Alpha look to him. And his hair’s curly, for fuck’s sake.

This isn’t Harry Styles’ audition. He had his, two years ago. His life’s his own. This audition, and this life, are George’s.

He squeezes Harriet’s fingers and he lets Dermot O’Leary ruffle his hair and then he’s on his way, stepping out onto the stage with his guitar at his side like a sword.

There’s a pale hush that falls over the Motorpoint crowd. All eyes are on George as he walks at a clip across the stage. He can feel them by the thousands prickling against his skin. Appraising him. But that’s what he’s here for; he’s here to be looked at and judged and he knows, he’s done his research, how to make those eyes _admire_.

He gives the crowd a little, bashful sideways glance through his fringe and bites his lower lip.

The murmurs start. George grins, lip plump and pink, and lets his nose wrinkle just enough.

There’s a catcalling whoop out in the crowd, and after a split second, the cheers and applause begin, urging him up to the microphone. He has them. He has this. He knows it.

George keeps grinning, and it’s real now, swelling through his chest like sails catching wind on one of the dark boats off Clevedon Pier. He can do this. He knows, because he’s doing it right now, and the stage lights shine rose tint and blue silk and _hot_ over his head, and behind him he can hear the almost-inaudible buzz of the massive X Factor logo lights shining. There are black cameras swooping like armored insects to get the best angles on his cheekbones and the curved flop of his hair and the long-fingered omeguesque of his bones. He’s really here. This is real. 

He adjusts the microphone stand to his height and takes the mic in hand with an easy, slow-like-syrup seductive grin. He wants the audience to want him. He needs them to want him, to keep him on their screens until the Christmas #1 charts. And he can do that. He can make people want him when he’s sleepy and covered in sour milk and coffee. 

But then there’s a gull-wing of nervousness in his stomach as the judges’ table comes into sharp focus when the lights change. 

George has had his introduction to Alphas today. But he can’t imagine anyone, anyone, being more intimidating than the four sitting in front of him right now. It makes him want to kneel straight away. 

But he won’t.

“What’s your name?” asks Tulisa Contostavlos. The Female Boss indeed. George can imagine going down for her. And staying there.

But he just gives her his second-best smile through the nerves. “George Shelley.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m eighteen,” he says, and the crowd starts to murmur again, conversing amongst themselves. 

Tulisa lets herself look a little charmed, and George’s face relaxes into his best smile, easy, slow. (He wouldn’t mind getting Bonded to Tulisa. He has eyes after all.) “And what are you doing with yourself at the moment?”

There are a hundred thousand things he could say.

_I’m making a point._

_I’m proving myself._

_I’m waiting for a uni to have space in the right dorms to take me._

_I’m getting out of Clevedon._

_I’m getting my fair shot._

“I work in a coffee shop,” George says. His eyebrows lift. He smirks just enough that his cheekbones could cut glass. He blinks boyishly. And his weight shifts from one foot to the other, a tiny suggestion, a subliminal message that he’s there to be snatched up. That he’s ready, for the audition, for this life, for whatever they want to throw at him.

Tulisa takes his bait and sits back in her chair, the line of her shoulders opened up to push her chest out as she dips her chin and smolders right back. “And what are you going to sing for us today?”

She crosses her leg under the table.

“Toxic, by Britney Spears?” George says. This time the grin on his face isn’t part of a calculation. He’s just fucking excited, and he’s in with a very good chance, and it’s a good song and he’s good at it. He knows this song from back to front. Even missing a final week’s rehearsing can’t hurt him. He’s charmed Tulisa, he has her vote; he’s sure of it. And he’ll get the crowd’s, too, and the other three judges. 

He’s got this. 

He _has_ this.

It’s easy to almost forget the crowd once he has his guitar in his arms. That’s the only lovely set of curves he really wants to cuddle today. He keeps time stamping his feet against the stage and he tries to smile between verses. He already knows that his fingers look good on the strings.

But his heart is in his throat as soon as he strums the final chord, because looking good can’t be enough. _He_ thinks he sounded good, but he’s biased. And even if he did – he might not have It. Might not have the x-factor, might be easily ignored. He doesn’t know how to make a whole room hang on his every word just by breathing and being. But he thinks he can at least get the four people who matter.

“I think you have a great look and a good vocal, and it’s a yes from me.”

“It’s a yes from me.”

“I could eat you with a spoon, honey,” says Nicole Scherzinger, and George flushes down to his toes. “Yes!”

He looks at Tulisa Contostavlos and lets his eyes go soft, obliging, looking for all the world like he’s ready to take orders from The Female Boss. Tulisa leans back in her chair and gives him a half-smirk back as she points, overtly, up and down the length of George’s body. “It’s a _massive_ yes from me.”

He’s done it.

He’s done it.

Realization and relief crush through George as much as the sugar-sweet smell of all of the Alphas in the room does and he has to hide his eyes behind his hand as he grins, a bright laugh welling up in his chest. He’s passed the first hurdle, and that’s more than he knew anyone – even Parisa, even Tony, even his _mum_ \-- really thought he would. He waves to Tulisa in a daze as he walks off the stage and right into his mum’s arms. He’s piled on by a crowd of cheering small kids, Archie and Annabelle shinnying up his legs like he’s a tree, and it’s probably, probably, the happiest George has ever been.

He knew it would be. 

“Quite a celebration!” George turns and there’s Dermot O’Leary, the smell of sugar softened by soap and talcum lifting off his skin. “George, would it be a safe guess that you’re excited?”

Other than the judges, George has never had an Alpha speak to him before. Certainly not this close, not close enough that he can feel the strange attraction-repulsion of Dermot’s Alpha-ness but also his Bond, something calling to George that this is what he needs but warning with teeth that it’s someone he can’t have. And then Dermot’s hand is on George’s shoulder, and they’re smiling at each other and George can feel the magnetic heat of it right through his shirt. Sugar, cotton, soap, thyme. _Alpha_. Alpha and _kindness_.

George opens his mouth to answer – 

And just giggles.

***

George feels like he’s floating for the next three weeks. Bootcamp will edge right up against his next Heat, but he’ll be rooming with another omega. The producers had rung after a week and told him that there was one more who had made it as far as bootcamp, and to assure that George was taking suppressors and had all of his proper certifications and health checks. They’d asked, too, if he had an Alpha who would need lodging.

“No,” George had said, and the word came with a sort of toe-curling pride. “I’m doing this myself.”

Parisa and her sister, and the other two girls in their band, have made bootcamp, too, and Charley and Betsy, so they all pile together into a traincar bound for Manchester. George already feels the start of a slowness in his bones, that soft-chewing tenderness around his joints that means the hormones for a Heat are starting to build. But Daniella pulls a bottle of coconut rum—of all fucking things—out of her bag, and Parisa produces a cache of shotglasses, and the countryside is streaming past the windows in a haze of green and George feels like fucking Harry Potter and he’s never, never, never been happier.

(When he was fat and fourteen and spent all of his time online, he’d written a treatise about why he always thought Harry was an omega, too. Tossing back a shot and holding Parisa in his lap and resting a hand on his guitar at his side on a train bound for somewhere magic, he still agrees.)

George dulls a bit when they get to the hotel and it turns out that there really are only two omegas who have made it this far, but even so, they get their own empty floor to share just for ITV’s liability. No one looks at George like he’s caused a fuss, but he feels it anyway, the lingering guilt of homework deliveries every month and changing in the coaches’ lavatories for P.E. because there was no locker room for omegas at St. Bernard’s. Going into Bristol to take his A-levels at the same time as resits because he’d missed them the first go around. 

But Caroline Flack smiles at George when he gets his room key, and Dermot O’Leary pretends to remember him when he shares George’s lift. Cameras follow George everywhere and he knows that it’s favoritism, the X Factor revamping after some bad press about bias, that he’s made it. The token omega, pretty and flirty and unBonded. 

But when his door opens onto the hotel’s penthouse suite because it was the only free room, George doesn’t even care. He has a goddamn Jacuzzi to soak his achy muscles in; they can give him all the special treatment they want.

He’s in the bath, singing to the echoes of the ceiling, when his roommate arrives. George stops singing straight away and almost ducks under the water in shock because the other omega isn’t alone: there’s an Alpha smell with him, a sticky smell like candy apples and hay bales, like a carnival. They speak softly in the front room of the suite while George waits in the bath, his heart beating out of his chest, unsure whether to stay where he is because he’s left his clothes in the other room or to announce his presence –

The bed creaks. And again. Sun-dried grass and oats and honey and then something smaller, lighter, bitter like cold grapefruit. A laughing, shoulder-stifled groan.

The other omega is getting a knot. 

Right there in the other room. 

There’s an icy hot lurch in George’s stomach and he draws his knees up to his chest, hugging them close, until long after the front door of the suite has opened and shut again and the water in his tub has gone cold.

On the very last day of bootcamp, he’s sent home. He knows the camera is trained on his face as he nods and swallows and resolutely _does not cry_. Parisa and her band are sent home, too, and Charley and Betsy left on day one, and the train ride five hours long back to Clevedon does not, at all, feel magical. George hurts. Every inch of him. Deeper than the exhausting, puffy ache of his Heat coming on is the sharp, needling, pointed knowledge that he failed. That he really wasn’t enough.

And he thinks, he knows, maybe, now, that it’s because he’s alone.

He cuddles up with his guitar on the far side of the train’s seat, and rests his face on the vibrating windowpane as he’s dragged right back to his life.

This Heat is worse than the last. George can smell phantom hints of burning sugar and hay and soap and violets and dancing flames every hour of it. He presses his face into the shoulders of the shirts he wore all through bootcamp, greedily sucking up the half-imagined lingering ghosts of every Alpha whose arm he brushed or who touched his shoulder or waist as they passed by him. He doesn’t let Parisa into his room this time, either, because after hearing what it’s meant to be, he can’t let her run herself ragged for him anymore. It just isn’t fair.

When George emerges, blinking, from his room, he gets a days-old message via a note tacked to his door from Dad—

_ITV offering you a spot in group if you want. Ring 09020505101. Congrats, George Porge. X_

George doesn’t even hesitate. He’s missed almost a week of time that he could have been rehearsing, so they make all of the necessary calls and he’s on a bus headed to London before he’s even eaten anything. He buys a load of crap sandwiches from the cart and texts Parisa and clings to his guitar. When he gets into London, it’s nightfall and he’s met at the depot not by the boys who will become his band, but their manager.

He’s a short, stocky, blustery beta, the sort who reeks of musky Alpha cologne and desperation. His head is shaved to hide that he’s balding prematurely, and he has more fake tan than even that one bloke, Rylan, at bootcamp who was an absolute giant he was so tall (and tan, and loud). He has a scrub of a red beard and giant black-framed glasses that George can tell have no lenses, and he’s dressed like he thinks he’s still sixteen. Or Justin Bieber, whichever you thought first.

“Blair,” he introduces himself, and he shakes George’s hand too hard like he’s compensating. “Glad you could make it. Did they tell you anything about the group?”

George shakes his head. “I was – well, it’s been a sort of fast day.”

Blair smiles at him, and George is honestly surprised. “I get that. My band -- _your_ band—has another omega, too. I guess that’s the sell, two omegas and two Alphas in a band together. What do you think of Union J for the name?”

The other omega, his roommate, who George avoided as much as he could out of pure embarrassment for days the week before, is in his band. And, George remembers, his roommate’s Alpha had been in the same group. He blushes beet red and hopes Blair doesn’t notice as he gets into the back of a car and they set off to a pub.

“Figured we’d feed you,” Blair says, “Get some drinks, introduce ourselves, see if we’re gelling. Tomorrow we’ll test out your voice and pick out a few audition songs from the list they sent. You play guitar?”

George is grateful that Blair is the most oblivious person on the planet, apparently, because it means he can answer things in one-word bites as he mentally prepares for… something he doesn’t even understand. If the other omega and his Alpha are in the band, is – is the other Alpha meant to be for George? He doesn’t, he doesn’t, he doesn’t even remember who the third person in that group was, and he doesn’t want an Alpha, and he’s so, so tired and so, so hungry and drinking tonight sounds like, simultaneously, the best and worst idea he’s ever had.

He brings his guitar into the pub with him because he doesn’t quite trust that it won’t be stolen from Blair’s car where he’s left it double-parked. The other boys are waiting in a big red leather booth, drinks in front of them and a half-finished basket of chips on the table.

“Hello, roomie!” calls the omega, waving. His Alpha’s arm is draped over his shoulders. “I’ve forgot your name, sorry. Jeremy?”

“George,” says George. “Are _you_ Jeremy?”

“Josh,” says the omega, apparently Josh. “We’re minus a Jeremy. This is JJ.” He nudges his Alpha in the ribs.

Hay.

Grain.

A sugar that smells of sweet shops, coconut ice or sherbet pips, an orangey-pink sort of scent. It doesn’t fit with his face, George thinks as JJ waves amiably, mouth full of chips. He’s older. Angular. He has tattoos on his arm because he’s allowed to get them, and George is indignantly jealous even though he knows, really, that he’d look stupid with tattoos. The principle of not being allowed to get them makes him want one out of spite. A huge FUCK YOU across his face, maybe.

“I’m Jaymi,” says the other Alpha, and he moves over on the bench to make room for George to sit. 

George softens right away for Jaymi, warm and docile and wanting to impress. Cigarette smoke cloaks over Jaymi’s crème brûlée vanilla and burning molasses smell, and George is dizzy with it. He likes the tattoos that litter Jaymi’s arms and hands and the back of his neck behind his ear. Blade shapes. He likes Jaymi’s brown eyes and he likes that he laughs at George’s bad jokes and he likes how it feels when Jaymi’s arm brushes his every time either of them reaches for the food at the center of the table, chips and shotglasses and beer bottles and ketchup and brown sauce. He likes his knee knocking against Jaymi’s beneath the table. He likes how solid Jaymi is, beside him.

He likes, and hates, that he can smell Jaymi’s Bond on him as clearly as he can see Josh- and JJ’s across the table. It makes Jaymi seem safe, his belonging to someone else.

“D’you not have a Bond?” Jaymi asks outright after a while, when George giggles, blushing, at the touch of Jaymi’s thigh against his own.

“No,” George says. “Never wanted one.”

“I’ve had mine almost three years,” Jaymi says. “We’re getting married, too. Properly. His name’s Olly. Did your parents not arrange you anyone?”

George pushes away the rest of his toasted cheese. “They’re betas. I’ve never met an Alpha before bootcamp.”

“Oh, my god,” says Jaymi. Josh and JJ, across the table, actually put down their glasses at that. “That’s kind of incredible. You could choose anyone you wanted, you know. With your face.”

“Can’t you?” asks George. His throat feels a little tight. “Being an Alpha. You get to choose, really.”

Jaymi laughs. “My dad had arranged someone for me when I was nearly twenty and still hadn’t Bonded with anyone. And I was so pissed off about it the night before I was meant to meet my mate that I went out to a club and found the first really fit omega I could and made an offer, and he was like, _yeah otherwise I’m going to get stuck with a real dickhead loser, our age and can’t find anyone_ , and we Bonded right in the club toilets.”

“Class,” Josh interjects. “Pure class, while I was out near the bar still fending off some beta three times my size.”

“Sorry, love,” Jaymi says, and doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Anyway, the moral is, obviously, that was Olly, and so was the person my dad’d arranged. So we would’ve ended together anyway. But you, like – they aren’t worried that you’re so old?”

“I’m not that old,” George says, bristling. “I’ve just barely turned nineteen. And I told you, I don’t want an Alpha. I have nine brothers and sisters, so I’ve had my fill of changing nappies and that, thanks.”

Across the table, Josh looks pensive and ruminating at that, like he’s doing calculations in his head looking for a sum that he can’t tell anyone yet. Although, George thinks, that might just be what Josh’s face looks like. He has a good jaw for brooding. He thinks he’s right, though, when JJ leans over and nudges Josh’s cheek with the end of his nose.

They’re funny-looking, George thinks. Not as people; they’re good-looking as people, really, but they’re a funny-looking Pair. Josh is bigger than JJ. George didn’t even know that it could work out like that, but Josh is taller and broader, too, in the shoulders and the breadth of his arms. JJ may have more muscles, though; George didn’t really look. Not his to look at.

“Did you grow up together?” George asks, and means _were you arranged_.

JJ and Josh look at each other and start to laugh, and looking at them, Jaymi rolls his eyes and does, too.

“No,” Josh says. “We met at uni.”

“He says it like I _went_ to uni,” JJ says. His arm slides around Josh’s ribs and rests there, fingertips light on Josh’s side, and George knows he’s staring. “I just showed up to the parties.”

“Which is how we met,” Josh says. “Woke up naked and hung over in the same bed, didn’t we? And that was that done.”

“Or so we thought.” JJ smiles at the memory. He squeezes Josh lightly. “So we woke up and had a good heave and thought, well, shit then, I guess we’re Paired. Ought to know each other for the next time, yeah?”

“So for about three weeks, we were inseparable.”

“They were, and a bit literally,” Jaymi says drolly. “It was really annoying.”

“ _But then_ the next Heat after that, you know, we went off to take care of Joshy and – ”

“We Bonded then,” Josh finishes. “Thought we’d been, all along, but I guess we hadn’t. Jayj was so drunk that first time he couldn’t even knot.”

“Shut up!” JJ pushes Josh sideways and he falls off the bench. “Wanker.” Josh’s hand wraps around JJ’s ankle and he _yanks_ \-- 

Heart stopping, George watches and reaches out to grab JJ before he topples onto the floor, too, because Josh is _stupid_ if he thinks he can push an Alpha around like that, even his own. But all that happens is that JJ falls, and he lands on the grimy floor beside Josh, roaring in laughter. He clambers atop Josh and they tussle, grinning and gnashing their teeth at each other in play, turning each other over to pin the other to the floor until JJ has Josh flat. JJ’s teeth glint white as he holds Josh’s wrists to the floor, and George might chew through his own lip. Josh doesn’t look scared – doesn’t _smell_ scared – but –

JJ bounces once over Josh’s hips, and Josh looks to George like the cat that got the cream. “Champion jockey.”

They’re mocking him, somehow. They must be. It doesn’t – it _really doesn’t_ work that way, it doesn’t _work that way_ ; it wouldn’t, there’s no reason for it. The idea of it makes something under George’s veins bubble, steam under popcorn skins crackling under the pressure of something _wrong_. He doesn’t believe in all that catechism anymore, but it seeps through his pores all the same and leaves the burnt taste of misunderstanding in a film across his tongue, because George doesn’t like to be mocked for what he is, and he thought that, for once, someone else would feel the same.

Jaymi frowns at them down on the floor. “Get up, idiots. You’re making George feel weird. I can tell from here.”

Josh’s hands linger on JJ’s hips even as they get up and apologize blithely to George before sliding back into the booth. 

“Sorry,” he says to George across the table. “Didn’t realize you’d be so conservative.”

“I’m not,” George protests, but it feels hollow in his chest. He isn’t conservative – he votes Labour, anyway, and spends a lot of his time trying to follow the arguments for omega rights – but he feels provincial (which he supposes he is), _dumb_ , like he’s missing some piece of the puzzle. “I’m not conservative. I just, I told you, I’d never met an Alpha until last week, really, it’s just new.” He presses his lips together and sets his jaw. It’s not as impressive as it’d be if Josh did it. “So is the chance to get to the Lives on X Factor, and if it’s all the same, that’s kind of all I care about.”

JJ keeps his hold on Josh, but gives George an encouraging smile for that. “Yeah, that’s good. Keep us focused. Jaymi tries, but eventually you learn to tune out his nagging.”

“I don’t nag!” Jaymi exclaims. “I remind you carefully and consistently because _you_ are a cabbage, and you – ” he points to Josh, “Think it’s charming that your boyfriend is a cabbage.”

George has to snort a giggle at that, because yeah, he can already tell that Jaymi probably nags.

“We should sing Bieber,” Josh says. “Since we know the harmonies on it and it wouldn’t be difficult to fit a new voice in on the verses. And I’m a really crap rapper. Even worse than Bieber.”

“Oh, I’m good,” George says, a little shy. “I did Earthquake at bootcamp.”

“I know,” says Josh. “We shared a room, remember? I was curious. I stayed to watch you.”

George tucks his head down a bit and fishes a chip out of the puddle of ketchup on his plate. “What did you think, then?”

“I thought you sounded like a white British rapper from Bristol. And you looked like a pretty omega Harry Styles,” Josh says broadly. “But I thought you’d fit really well in a boy band.”

George looks up at that, at Josh across the table still staring with mathematics in his eyes, and JJ smiling with half his heart on Josh and half his mind on the conversation. And Jaymi, next to him, gently radiating a warmth that George wants to crawl inside to wrap up in and keep, vanilla and tobacco and vodka cranberry. Jaymi intentionally knocks his knee against George’s beneath the table, and JJ gives George an absurd double thumbs-up, and George has to laugh, flicking the ketchuppy chip at Josh.

“Yeah, alright,” he says. “I guess I’d fit in well with a boy band. But I don’t look like fucking Harry Styles.”

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Warnings:** Sexual content (het [pegging], slash [penetrative PiA, fingering [briefly]); use of sex toys; graphic sexual dialogue including street harassment.

** Genesis **

| Alpha (Α) | beta (β) | omega (Ω)  
---|---|---|---  
Alpha (Α) | \--- | omega/beta | Alpha  
beta (β) | omega/beta | beta/omega | beta  
omega (Ω) | Alpha | beta | \---  
  
  
Figure 5.3: Chart describing possible offspring of Alpha, beta, and omega pairings. Note that most combinations result in either beta or omega offspring, with the exception of an Alpha-omega pairing. Alpha-Alpha and omega-omega pairings do not produce viable offspring.   


> While all pairs conceive offspring through the act of copulation, the likelihood of successful conception varies by status of the pair mates. Beta/omega pairs have the lowest odds of viable conception with a general success rate of 28% for breeding pairs between 15-25 years of age and feature a decline in fertility odds 10% odds every seven Heat cycles until the final omega Heat at age 35, at which time all conception becomes inviable. Beta/beta pairs may have viable conception until variable ages between 45-55 with a general success rate of 30%. Alpha/beta pairs feature a success rate variable by the virility of the Alpha partner and are not replicable between mated pairs in clinical study.
> 
> Alpha/omega pairings feature the strongest chance of viable conception during an omega’s Heat cycle, at which time likelihood of conception higher than 95% from the initial omega Heat in pubescence until the final stages of Heat at age 35. Since the 1960s, suppressor pills have been made available to omegas to prevent unwanted pregnancy, although this is protested heavily by the Catholic Church and many other major religious and political entities. 

***

Las Vegas is everything that George ever thought it would be – good and bad. It’s unbelievable dry heat over the desert and ambient light keeping the sky from ever going dark, instead hovering heavy purple and gray and somehow keeping the summer pressed down low over the buildings and crowds. It’s all amber light and spires and sudden back alleys where it seems like more nouveau riche should be.

Their first night, they’re all crammed into a limousine – all twenty-one of them, plus Dermot and Caroline and the camera crew – and they take turns sticking their heads out of the car roof as they trundle down the Strip. George is tucked tightly between Caroline and Jaymi and he feels like he might fall right out of his skin, bones and muscles and excited heartbeat pushing against each other to the beat of an old Elvis song. His knee keeps jostling Caroline’s beside him until finally, she reaches down and gently stills it with her palm over the top of his kneecap. 

“You alright, Gorgeous George?”

George has read about Caroline, of course. How she dates other Alphas. It was in the papers all last winter, her dating Harry Styles and George had thought that they were unfair to her about it, saying that she was selfish for taking up time he could be using to find a proper Bond and calling her a pervert. George doesn’t – it’s not like she was an omega dating another omega, or anything, and maybe he wouldn’t do it but that doesn’t make her a _pervert_. If pressed, George would say that it makes him like her more, just a bit, because she isn’t – he feels alright around her, is all, even with her hand on his thigh.

“Yeah,” he giggles. He should work on that, though, the giggling every time an Alpha talks to him. “I’m just really excited.”

“You should be,” Caroline agrees. She gives his leg a pat. “I think it’s your turn, if you like, pop on up and stick your head through like a puppy.”

George giggles again at that, ducking his head, but shuffles forward and stands up as best he can in the crowded back of the limo. Someone grabs hold of his knees to steady him and it tickles, so he’s laughing when his head and arms pop out of the limo’s roof into the soft summer night air, cicada song even louder than the noise of the Strip. There are shouts and hollers and music and the _ching!ching!_ of dollar slots, the smell of asphalt and neon and gasoline and bursts of every restaurant they pass: seafood and sizzling hot dogs and Chinese, Indian, Italian, coffee. There are knots of people everywhere, families in tourist gear tugging sticky-faced kids no older than Archie; beautiful betas in short, sparkly dresses the colors of jewels; tall, broad-shouldered Alphas 

Everything is twinkling. And he couldn’t be further from Clevedon.

Someone down in the limo tickles the back of George’s knee, and two of the betas walking down the strip stop to point at him, grinning as they whisper. George’s nose wrinkles as he giggles again, so, so high on the smell of the desert and the lights and the knowledge that even if this is as far as he gets, he made it here.

“Hey!” one of the betas yells. George looks up, and she blows him a kiss. “Woo!”

George dissolves in laughter as he raises his arm to wave. “Woo, I guess!”

“George!” comes Caroline’s voice from below them, “Stop wooing people!”

George covers his face and ducks back into the limo, his cheeks stained bright red. “They wooed me first.”

The warmth of Caroline’s thigh one one side and Jaymi’s leg pressing into the other makes George shiver as he settles back into his seat. 

Jaymi’s brown eyes are playful as he looks down at George next to him, reaching out to tickle. “I’ll just bet they did.”

George squawks indignantly at the comment as much as the tickling, and he flails a little before one of the cameramen says _alright, settle down, too crowded for kicking_. Jaymi stops tickling George but leaves his arm across George’s waist like a seatbelt, keeping George right where he should be, and George thinks that he likes Las Vegas.

But later that night, he doesn’t. After the big reveal that they have Louis Walsh as their judge, and they’ve acted surprised in fifteen different takes until Sharon Osbourne is convinced that her hair looks right, the Groups are all given free reign to explore the Strip. The only rule they need to follow is not to tell people that they’re from the X Factor and not to break any laws, which sounded wonderful until everyone remembered that the legal age in the US is, illogically, twenty-one.

So George and Josh are left alone, the only contestants too young to go into the casinos with everyone else. There were reforms, George knows, a revolution half a century ago that made it illegal for the buildings along the Strip to disallow omegas entrance, but he can see the faded lettering on some of the older buildings and the looks in some doormen’s eyes that even if they were old enough, their money wouldn’t be just as good.

“Are you sure it’s alright?” JJ asks Josh softly outside a door that Jaymi’s holding open for him. George can hear Staz and Charlie shouting from inside the brightly lit building.

“Yeah,” Josh says. He bends down and kisses JJ on the mouth, and George looks at his feet. “It’s fine, me and George can, you know, like. Get to know each other. Find a McDonalds or something and get chips.”

“Crisps,” JJ corrects him. “America.”

“Fries,” Jaymi calls from the door. “Not crisps. Jayj, hurry up, my arm’s getting tired.” He pauses and looks over at George with a small smile. “You have my number, right, Georgie? In case you get lost?”

“I won’t get lost,” George says, cheeks pink. “I’ll have a Josh with me.”

“Josh gets lost in Tesco,” Jaymi and JJ say together.

“It was one time!” Josh sounds like a wet cat, but JJ grins at him as he tweaks Josh’s cheek. Josh’s eyebrows look very offended before JJ pats Josh’s bum and disappears under Jaymi’s arm into the casino.

The door closes, and the street is marginally quieter. Josh looks over at George. “So.”

“So,” George says. He digs his toe into a crack in the sidewalk. “Er – is there even anything we’re allowed to do here?”

“Find a McDonalds,” Josh repeats, a little less enthusiastically. “I could eat some chips.”

“Shouldn’t eat chips,” George mutters, “They’re really bad for you. Or, well, you could eat chips. ‘Cause they’re delicious.” He looks up and nods. “Yeah, alright, I could eat chips.”

Josh gives George a little quirk of his cheek that George is already learning to recognize as a Josh version of a smile. He starts off down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, and George skips two steps to catch up.

“Do you know where it is?” George asks. “The McDonalds?”

“No,” Josh admits, “But it’s America, there’s probably one every three meters.”

“Right,” George says, the back of his shoulders prickling. There are people all around them still, but the families of tourists have thinned out to nearly nothing now that night’s fallen as much as it can in the humming glow of the casinos and shops all along the street. Every person they pass as they walk has alcohol on their breath and skin and some have it on their shirts, too. And eyes follow them, two omegas walking alone. George can feel the looks as they land on him, sometimes with twitches of noses, sometimes with whispers or open, overt pointing. 

JJ wouldn’t have left Josh if it weren’t safe, though, would he; Josh must be able to take care of himself, or else Las Vegas is safer than _CSI_ would lead George to believe. George wraps his arms around his stomach and holds tight to the sides of his striped t-shirt as they wander.

“So,” he tries again, after they’ve turned a corner. “Are you glad we have Louis?”

“Yeah,” Josh says. “I was in a band once that opened for Boyzone. He knows what he’s doing.”

“That’s awesome,” George says, and he means it. “I – he liked my audition. So that’s good.”

“Of course he did,” Josh snorts. “You’re unBonded and young and pretty. They all liked your audition.”

“Right,” George mumbles. “But I also think we sound good, don’t we? I thought ‘Call Me Maybe’ sounded great yesterday.”

“It sounds good,” Josh agrees. “But also gimmick. You have to have read all the OFCOM complaints last year about every finalist being an Alpha. There’s a lot of betas with us this year, haven’t you noticed? Most of the Boys. And Lucy, but she’s so awesome you’d never notice.”

“James is, too,” George argues quietly. “And Ed Sheeran’s only a beta. It’s not like you need to be an Alpha to be good. You’re good.”

“Thanks,” Josh says. “I’m not Jaymi. But I’m working on it.” He pauses before looking over at George. “You’re good, too.”

“Thanks,” George mumbles. He laughs a little and scuffs his heel. “Hopefully Sharon Osbourne thinks so, too.”

“She will,” Josh says, puffing out his chest. “Louis would be a shit mentor to half the groups here. I think it’ll be GMD3, us, and maybe Times Red. Or Poisonous Twin, but they’re fucking awful.”

“They are awful,” George agrees. “I’m – it’s weird to me that they’re here. Because I know there was another group, girl group, who were at boot camp and everything who were really good. My, like, friend, she’s their lead singer.” He shakes his head. “I guess they didn’t want anyone to be compared to Little Mix.”

“No, instead they’re going for ‘let everyone get compared to One Direction,’” Josh says.

“Noticed?”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Josh’s cheek quirks again. “It’ll help us until it doesn’t, I guess. Your hair.”

“It’s not even curly!” George grumps, twisting the material of his t-shirt between his fingers a little. “There’s no comparison to be made. I’m not an – he’s an Alpha. There’s no comparison.”

“Don’t think Caroline noticed that, mate.” Josh sounds a little cagey. “She kept watching you.”

“It’s her job,” George mutters. “She’s watching everyone.”

“She didn’t call me Gorgeous Josh.”

“Well,” George sputters, “That rhymes less.”

“Gorgeous George doesn’t rhyme at all!” Josh rolls his eyes. “I’m not saying it like it’s bad. I’m just saying it. If it helps us get through to the Lives, I’m all for it, just don’t, like, go Bond with her tonight at the hotel and be a mess tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to Bond with Caroline,” George snaps. “I don’t want a Bond. If I wanted one, I could go find one, but I don’t. And it wouldn’t be Caroline, anyway, she only dates other Alphas.”

“Who look like Harry Styles.”

“Which I don’t.” 

They keep walking in silence and the streets get quieter around them as Josh leads George in a maze, then doubles back. George can see the landmarks – turrets and spires and part of the fake Eiffel tower – but the lights are blurry and the purple-gray sky makes him feel like they’re hovering near something, but not getting closer to it.

“Shouldn’t we have found the McDonalds by now?” he asks finally.

“I don’t know,” Josh says. “As long as we can see the hotel, I figure we’re fine, right? So let’s just – ” He spins on his axis until he’s facing the Eiffel. “Head back. Maybe it’s on the other side of the road, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Yeah,” George says, shivering a little despite the desert heat. “Sounds reasonable. Erm, so we’ll just cross here and walk back, right? No exploring or anything?”

Josh looks over at George and his face softens a little. His nose works, and in the breeze George catches a hint of JJ’s hay scent on Josh’s clothing. George doesn’t have that. “Yeah,” Josh says, and it sounds like an apology and a promise at the same time. “Just head right back.”

George takes a breath and walks a little closer to Josh as they jog across the street and start heading back up the road where it’s a little too quiet to still be the Strip. Cars slow a little as they pass by them, and George tries to look as formidable and yet unnoticeable as possible.

He should have brought a sweatshirt. Something with sleeves. He should have worn looser jeans, too, but he wanted to look good on television. Stylish, and that. He’s grateful for Josh’s surprising bulk; if people didn’t look too closely, they might assume he’s a beta, at least. He has good arms. 

The ground shakes a bit with the beat of a dubstep mix as the door of a club opens just in front of George and Josh and a group of people spill out, stinking of cheap cocktails and muddled pheromones spiked with musky too-sweet perfume. There are omegas in this crowd, but it somehow doesn’t make George feel any better about suddenly being swept into their midst.

“Hey!” shouts a scruffy-bearded beta with a handheld camera in his palm. “Look at this, jackpot! Double or nothing.” He gives Josh and George a grin and two of the omegas in the crowd materialize on either side of him wearing tiny shorts that hide nothing and very little else, save their bright orange baseball caps with a familiar logo that makes George bite the inside of his cheek. _omegas On Cam! Only £14 if you ring now, now, now!_ “Look at these two, pretty as pictures. ‘Specially this one,” he continues, and he touches George’s arm. 

George steps back, closer to Josh. “Can we get through, please?”

“Ooh!” The beta puts on an affected accent. “British, are they? Even better. Very hot. Say,” he leans closer to George. “You’re that kid, aren’t you? Nah, you aren’t; are you his brother? Are you just his?”

“No,” George mumbles. “Let us get through. Dick.”

“Ooh.” A grin. “British kitten has claws. You want to make fifty bucks, kitten? Want to be famous?”

“We’re meeting someone,” Josh says, and he puts his arm around George’s shoulders. “Get out of our way. And stop touching him.”

“No shitting, I’ll pay you five hundred bucks if you’ll make out with him. _Snogging_ is your word, isn’t it? Five hundred American dollars.”

“Fuck off, man,” Josh says. “No. _Move_.”

“Yeah, you I can understand, you have someone to get mad, but you,” he turns to George again, “You could get anyone you want. You’re getting old, sweetheart, the good ones’ll be gone. Just gimme a smile, start with a smile. Ten bucks for a smile.”

George scowls. 

“He’s not going to fucking smile for you,” Josh says, and his eyebrows look fierce. “We’re not doing anything for you. Now move, or I’ll ring someone to move you.”

“Alright.” The beardy guy takes his hand off George’s arm and holds his hands up in a little mocking shrug. “Coulda had something. You could have been big. People would love your face.”

Josh shepherds George through the ruckus and past the door, and they jog back to their original side of the street, too, just to get further away. George keeps his arms wrapped around himself, looking down at his shoes, and wonders whether anything he’s doing anymore could be credited to anything besides people just… wanting to look at his face.

They’re back on the Strip before Josh asks, gruffly, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” George says. “Fine. Are you okay?”

“Proper angry,” Josh says, “And hungry. But I’m okay. I owe you chips, don’t I?”

“More than chips,” George says. “I want a full fucking meal for that.”

“Yeah,” Josh says. “Sorry. I’m shit with directions.”

George is already shaking his head, “It’s not your fault, it’s their fault for being gross. And I should’ve – I took self-defense classes and stuff, I just get nervous and forget how to talk. It was just betas, it’s not like they could’ve done, you know. _Really_ awful.”

“Still bad,” Josh argues. “That was shit. That was a shit way to start the trip.”

They’re quiet for another block until they find a building boasting an all-you-can-eat buffet for $20 a person, and Josh holds the door open for George. 

“It’s not just your face people will like,” he says, and it sounds like he’s pushing the words out against his own stubborn will. “You’re a good singer.”

George looks up and tests a small smile. “Thanks.”

They’re both partway through lukewarm cheeseburgers and an enormous tray of nothing but slightly soggy French fries before Josh mutters, “Fucking hate being told to smile.”

George kicks Josh’s ankle under the table and winks. “Shouldn’t have such a pretty face then, should you, Joshy.”

Josh flicks a chip across the table and it gets lost in George’s hair. “Fucking finish your fucking food. I want to get back to JJ.”

***

Between Judges’ Houses and their first week of Live shows, the contestants are all sent home to finish up their commitments there – when George tells Tony that he’s made it to the X Factor stage, Tony hugs him so hard it crushes the air out of George’s lungs and he’s lifted off his feet, squeaking little giggles until he starts coughing and has to punch fruitlessly at Tony’s shoulder.

“I knew you could do it, Georgie,” he says, ruffling through George’s hair. (They never found the chip. George has no idea where it’s gone.) “If anyone could make it, it’d be you. I’ll make badges!”

George wheezes a giggle as he keeps trying to catch his breath, and he takes enormous, wriggling pride in crossing his name out on the scheduling board.

When George tells Parisa that he’s leaving for London after all, they’re lying curled together on George’s bed, socked toes tapping together. A squall off the beach buffets George’s windows, and he’s sore from the end of his last Heat before London, but he’s warm and clean, his hair wet from his bath. He let Parisa stay with him off and on this time out of a strange sense of sadness in his gut, because he hadn’t told her yet about making it to the X Factor and somehow, it feels like an ending as much as it is a start.

“I can’t believe you really made it.” Parisa rubs George’s ear between two knuckles. “That’s huge, George, and not just for you.”

George smiles and tucks his face down against her shoulder. “It’s not that big a deal, really. Josh is there, too.”

“That’s even better,” Parisa says. “I’m glad you won’t be, like, alone. You and he can take care of each other.”

“He doesn’t need me to take care of him,” George says. “He has JJ. You should have seen his face after Josh told him and Jaymi about what that oOC dick did; I thought we’d have to bail him out of American jail.” Jaymi had been angry, too, of course—he’d put his arm around George’s shoulders and asked if there was anything he could do, but all George had said was _no, it’s not your fault, is it_ before he slithered away, too _close_ for comfort. Jaymi has an Olly. If it’d been him getting propositioned for late-night infomercial porn, Jaymi would have had the same red glint in his eyes. But it was only George.

Parisa is quiet for a long moment, her fingertips playing with the edge of George’s shirtsleeve and tapping against the tiny muscle of his tricep. He’s done about four pushups since Las Vegas, but still, _four_. That’s better than three. “Who’s going to take care of you, while you’re there?”

“I don’t know.” George gives a little half-shrug and nestles deeper into the pillows. Feet pound past his door and Spencer gives a wailing shriek as Archie cries about _inbizzibo monsters in the walls!_ George snorts quietly and shakes his head, Parisa’s lips brushing against his temple. “Nobody, I guess.”

“I want you to enjoy being there, though.” Parisa pinches the back of his arm. “It’s the dream.”

“I will enjoy it,” George says, and he means it. His audition episode aired while he was going through Heat, but when he checked his twitter feed in the bath, it had gone up by thirty thousand. A good lot of it was filthy, but a good lot praised his voice, too, and people called him talented. That omega deejay on Radio 1, Nick Grimshaw, who George likes out of a sense of solidarity more than out of enjoying the music (because solidarity can only go so far, really, when it comes to musical taste and George can’t listen to Skrillex without his eyes hurting) called him ‘#NewHarry,’ and that probably helped. Annoying. But helpful. And anyway, George is as sure as the rest of the country that Nick Grimshaw is Harry’s omega, so it was surely meant as a compliment. “It’ll be the time of my life.”

Parisa nods at that, but her shoulders droop a little. 

George nudges her cheek with his nose. “I wish you were coming, too. We could tear up the town and have it be a real town to get torn up, for once.”

Parisa laughs at that, tickling the back of George’s knee with her toes. “I’ll come bother you. I’ll make you introduce me to your new celebrity pals. We’ll show off our dance moves at the clubs.”

“I don’t have any dance moves,” George giggles, and he pokes Parisa until she stops tickling him. It’s better than pointing out that the only omegas allowed into posh London clubs are the ones attached to real celebrities. Besides, his lack of swagger, Josh’s lack of coordination, and JJ’s lack of ability to remember things for longer than ten minutes (unless it’s about a horse) have well and truly ruled out Union J from being a real dancing boy band.

“Yeah, you don’t need them,” Parisa eventually agrees after they’ve both been exhausted by giggles. “I think you’ll manage to be the talk of the town even without dancing. Or me.”

“Maybe,” George allows. “But it won’t be the same without you.”

Parisa rolls a little so she can wrap her arms more securely around George’s waist. He knows that he’s smaller since the last time, but so much has changed for him in the last two months. More than he’d ever expected to change in his lifetime. The only thing that hasn’t is this. “I know it won’t.”

It isn’t, either, when George gets to London. He’d assumed that like boot camp, he would be put in a room with Josh, but instead he turns up to the hotel and they film a bit where George flops into the giant bed in a suite and then, as soon as the camera is gone, Josh shoulders his bag and says, “See you at dinner.”

“What?” George sits up in the marshmallow of a bed. “You aren’t my roommate?”

“Nah, I’m staying with JJ.” It’s clear from Josh’s voice that this should have been obvious. “You’ll be alright with Jaymi, won’t you?”

George knows, cognitively, that Jaymi is a nice guy. And he has an Olly. He’d been really kind in Las Vegas and his knees are warm and he’s very dependable. But George has a block of ice in his belly anyway. A room, a room with beds, and a lock on the door, and he’ll have to sleep in it with an Alpha. An Alpha he barely knows. A million news stories roll through George’s head flickering like microfiche,  
biggertallerstrong  
         erstudbreedsabot  
              agedon’twearthat  
                        don’tsaythissmiles  
            milesmiletenbucks  
    forasmilekitten  
“I guess so,” George says. He wets his lips and shakes his head. “Won’t Olly mind it?”

“Why?” Josh asks. “It’s not like you could steal Jaymi. They’re Bonded, going to get married, too.”

Josh sits down next to George on the fluffy bed. “If you’re that scared, I can stay with you until you know him better. But I’ll probably need the room for an hour later. And tomorrow. And mostly every day.”

A wild sort of half-laugh snorts out of George’s nose. “I – it’s – I’m not _scared_. It’s just, I don’t want Olly to hate me. If we meet. If the group works out. Which it will,” he adds quickly. “’Cause we’re good. So I don’t want Olly to hate me.”

“You are a shit liar,” Josh says, and pushes George over. “You should work on that, seeing as every preteen in the greater United Kingdom and Ireland is going to want to know all about you and I, for one, don’t plan on absolute truth. Bit awkward, isn’t it?”

“I don’t want Olly to hate me,” George protests. “And I don’t – I can live with Jaymi. It’s fine. You should stay with JJ. It’s what’s right.”

Josh’s eyebrows do something wriggly, and Josh claps George’s shoulder as he stands up. “They got you good.” He shoulders his duffel. “But I promise, you’re fine with Jaymi. He loves Olly. And I’ve known him since I was still an Ugly Duckling; he’s honestly great. If JJ and I were less of drunks, I’d’ve happily gone with Jaymi. But it doesn’t matter, ‘cause he and Olly are perfect and not even your hair can get between that. Now come on, let’s go meet everyone else.”

George shoves Josh’s hand out of his hair and rolls out of the bed. “Alright. And I’m not scared. Nobody’s ‘got me.’ And anyway, I’d rather not get sexiled every day if it’s all the same, so it’s fine.”

“That’s the spirit,” Josh agrees.

Everyone in the hotel bar that night is a character. It’s probably why they’re on the X Factor, George figures; they all have it, in some degree or another. He and Josh are still the only omegas, but there’s a healthy handful of betas with big boomy voices, and George likes them right away – James and Lucy and a few of the wildcards. He likes Jahmene, too, who is the shyest, smallest Alpha that George has ever seen—he’d think Jahmene were an omega if he didn’t smell the sweetened blueberry coming off him in every nervous giggle. George respects that, though; nervous giggler solidarity, this time. And he likes Ella straight off, too, pretty and too confident by half but with a right to be. She slides over right away at her booth to let George sit half-perched on her knee, and she keeps her hand rested on the ticklish slice of George’s waist for most of the night, but it doesn’t feel like too much. It’s steadying, after George has had more free cocktails than he could count on both hands even if he were sober and could see the proper number of fingers. Halfway through the night, Caroline, Dermot, and Olly Murs show up, and George giggles something terrible when Caroline sits down across from him and Ella and eases the glass out of his hands. 

“Alright, George?” she asks.

The rest of the J’s pile into their booth on Ella’s other side, and a bevy of hands ruffle into George’s hair. He can smell cigarette smoke over molasses, and George sighs happily, his breath a little puff of vodka, as he tilts into the good headscratching.

“He’s fine,” George hears Josh assure Caroline. “Everyone’s taking good care of our little George. Except Ella. Don’t trust her with a five-meter pole.”

“Good thing George isn’t a five-meter pole then,” Ella says drolly. “He’s a real grown person who can take care of himself.”

George gives Caroline a goggle-eyed beam, nodding proudly, and holds out his hand for her to return his glass. She rolls her eyes and gives it back to him, and her fingers are refreshingly cool when they brush at the back of his hand.

The next morning, George wakes up miserable and hung over and—he’s glad to note—alone in a bed so fluffy it’s probably trying to chew him up and swallow him in bits.

“Help,” he grumble-groans, pushing at pillows with limp noodle arms. “Josh?”

“Nope, it’s me,” Jaymi says. A pillow comes off George’s eyes and Jaymi is grinning down at him with his face half in shaving cream. There are tattoos spanning Jaymi’s chest and all along his arms. “Thought you drank enough that I’d find a fish if I pulled these pillows off.”

George groans elegantly. “Bed eating me. Help. Out.”

Jaymi rolls his eyes but holds out an arm, and George claws his way out of the bed and onto his feet. He groans again, let elegant and more wet and miserable, and presses his face into the script along the cap of Jaymi’s arm. Once the floor has decided to like George and stay nice and solid under his feet, George takes a deep breath and

_oh_

It’s different so close, no cloth between them, first thing in the morning, heavy from sleep and smudging onto George’s skin. It makes something swirl in George’s stomach that isn’t last night’s drink; it’s warm, warming, something George wants to lick up until it’s running through his veins instead of blood. His eyelashes flutter against Jaymi’s skin.

“You alright, Georgie?”

George shivers a bit then straightens, trusting his knees, and blinks a few times to clear the burnt sugar from his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good.” He doesn’t want to let go of Jaymi yet. “Did – do the tattoos hurt, to get?”

“A bit,” Jaymi says. “I like it, though.”

George nods a little, and risks touching the _Oliver_ inked on the back of Jaymi’s wrist. 

“That tickles,” Jaymi says, and George snatches his hand away. “And you smell rank, love. Get in the shower, clean up. Have a gargle. We have to go learn to sing.”

“I know how to sing,” George protests.

“We have to go learn to sing outdated Queen songs with a dubstep bridge in the middle,” Jaymi corrects himself, and they both roll their eyes. “Scoot!”

It goes, in the end, as well as it sounds like it would. It’s a terribly chosen song arranged terribly for their voices, and none of them sing it well. They give George the opening lines, and he’s so—unprecedentedly, unpleasantly, unbearably—nervous that his voice shakes until there’s no way it could come out in tune. He’s moving awkwardly, so nervous he keeps psychosomatically feeling like he’s scenting even though he can’t be, he took tablets just to be sure, and his hair is doing a _thing_. Their judges’ comments are panning, and before they’ve even left the stage, George is sure he left his heart on their platform, completely and utterly broken.

But they make it through.

As soon as it’s announced, Josh and JJ are screaming and clamp into each other’s arms, Jaymi falls over, fists in the air, and George has no choice but to leap onto Louis Walsh—but then, Josh grabs George around the waist to pull him back down and as they’re pressed together, he breathes, “ _Solidarity, mate_.”

And George thinks, yeah.

Probably is.

Parisa hadn’t lied—

This is huge, and not just for George.

“All the same,” Josh says later, when they’re all sprawled on his- and JJ’s enormous pushed-together bed, “I’d rather not stink up the stage next week, yeah?”

So maybe they’re a bit derivative. Topman winter collection, pea coats and berry colors. A love song. George’s hair. There’s no harm in it, really, and they rehearse a lot more and George refuses any solos, deferring instead to Jaymi and Josh.

“I love it,” says Louis Walsh. “So equal! So progressive! Half to the Alphas, and half to the omegas. It’s genius.”

(“It’s just good sense,” JJ complains later, playing with Josh’s fluffy rhino-horn of hair. “They’re the best singers.”

“That doesn’t matter, bub,” Josh says. His head is rested across JJ’s thighs. Across the table, George is perched on Ella’s knee again and leaning up against Jaymi’s tattooed arm. “And he’s right; it’s genius.”)

George doesn’t think it’s genius, per se. He thinks it’s something, but only when he’s in a particularly good mood does it think that ‘something’ is anything other than condescending. But, really, he’s learning, most of the X Factor is condescending—bigging up James’ makeover and Lucy’s eccentricity and Ella having _so much presence_ so young. And, of course, George being unBonded and always hanging about with Ella. Like it’s some kind of inevitability that they’ll end up Bonded just because they’re in the same room more than half the time and sometimes share a cup of coffee in the morning because everyone else prefers tea. Like George couldn’t possibly contain himself around an Alpha who’s still available. It’s infuriating, especially because George spends time with everyone on the show, unBonded Alphas and betas and Bonded Alphas and Josh alike. He’s not trying to woo Ella. She’s sixteen, for god’s sake.

All the same, the even split of Alpha and omega in Union J gearing up to week two is genius enough that Louis Walsh is dead set against them being voted out. He pulls every punch he has for them, so when George walks into the greenroom before the second Live show—

“George!” Louis Walsh trumpets. He’s genuinely rubbing his hands together. “Come, come, come! I want you to meet these little superstars, I’m sure you recognize them.”

And of course George does.

Everyone on the planet does, at this point.

“Nice hair,” says Liam Payne, giving George a grin.

“Thanks,” George says awkwardly. “Grow it myself.”

The rest of Union J filter in behind George, and there’s a camera crew behind them and makeup to make sure none of their nine noses shine and a can of hairspray to make sure every strand of every quiff is in place. It’s less of a meeting than a conveyor belt of high-fives and, to George’s surprise, enthusiastic hugs.

“Hey, mate,” Niall Horan says, pulling George in by the neck like he’s a puppy. He smells fresher than George would have thought he could be, less like sugar and more like fruit, an apple orchard drenched in springtime. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” George squeaks. “I’m alright; alright?”

Niall gives him a brace-faced grin and pats George’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble right into Zayn. George moves down the rest of the little line with much less excitement, a hug off Liam and a handshake from Louis Tomlinson, who seems bored with the whole thing even though, as far as George knows, he’s an unBonded Alpha and George is objectively rather pretty.

But Louis just waves him on and George steps into the obligatory hug from Harry Styles, who, George notes, has lost some of his hair’s curl but it’s still more voluminous than his own. His nose is broader, too, and turns down at the end where George’s turns up. Harry has less cheekbone and more dimple, he’s taller, he’s broader, there’s a thin shadow of almost-hair on his upper lip, he has a widow’s peak. They look nothing alike. George pats Harry’s back with something akin to victory. As they pull back from the little hug, George’s nose winds up right in the fluff of curls behind Harry’s ear. It’s only a moment, only long enough for his brain to sigh, _home_.

George shivers, looking up. Harry’s face is right there, too close, close enough that George could nose into his cheek if he really wanted, right up to the dimple. He doesn’t quite feel able to look away, even though he knows he should, _don’t stare, don’t sniff, don’t look needy_. 

Harry doesn’t seem to have been taught that lesson, because he’s staring at George right back. “You smell like satsumas.” 

George steps back, eyes wide and face bright red. 

Harry looks a bit like he doesn’t know what to do with himself: his lips are pinched in something that would look like mortification on any face besides Harry Styles’. He knits his hands together in front of him and mutters, “I’m sorry. That was a bit shit. I just really like satsumas.”

George nods faintly. “I like grapes.” _I like grapes?_ He skitters backwards toward the styling studio. “Bye.”

_I like grapes_. Jesus christ.

They go onstage and perform, and maybe Louis Walsh really is a genius. At any rate, George feels better: loose, warm, on a rush like he’s coming up out of the salt spray under the pier in the middle of the hottest day of July. He _knows_ they’ve performed well. He smiled and giggled and sang exactly right, exactly the way that he wanted to do it this week in that ridiculous pea coat and made up to look more like an Alpha he doesn’t resemble at all.

George even manages not to giggle inanely when Dermot passes him the microphone after, until, of course, the audience goes up in a swooning roar and Dermot makes a joke about people screaming no matter what George could say and that—doesn’t feel like _giggling_. It’s laughing, because George knows this time that he’s in on the joke.

It’s different. A liquid gold different, bright as the stage lights and the glitter off Ella’s dress as she cheers for him in the wings, and George likes it.

That night, washing layers of makeup off his face, the high starts to come down and George notices how tender his joints feel. There’s a creak in his knees that wasn’t there at the morning and his knuckles need cracking.

It’s a week early and he took a tablet with his suppressors, but when George slowly strips to take another hot shower for his muscles, he blushes cold and realizes that even though it’s a week early, he’s already started scenting.

_You’ll be fine. Just take 2 tabs instead of 1._ Parisa texts him in response to his 911 in the middle of the night. _It’s just being around so many Alphas XX_

George rolls onto his back in the huge, fluffy bed, clutching his mobile to his chest, and wills his heart to slow. He’s fine. He’ll be fine. He’s always been regular as clockwork; he’ll be fine. Just being around so many Alphas, he repeats silently, moving his lips over and over in the dark. _I’ll be fine._

***

The smell of burnt sugar is oppressive, heavy in the air and cloying, sticking to George’s skin and hair and wafting like blue smoke in front of his eyes, making him blink slow and deliberate, labored and trying to focus. He thought he’d become used to it, the Alpha smell, being around it all the time, but it’s like he can see Jaymi’s fingerprints glow phosphorescent everywhere in the room that he’s touched: the desk, the lamp, the beside tables, the closet door and George’s own suitcase, still half-packed at the foot of the bed because there’s no telling when they’ll be sent to leave. It’s baked into George’s clothes and the smoke is, too, ashy and hearth-hot. It makes George want to take his clothes off.

He lets out a measured breath through his teeth and defiantly pokes at the keys of his laptop.

He’s fine.

He can manage.

He’s fine.

Jaymi’s someone else’s. He always has the scent of Olly on him, lime and flowers and omega.

George shifts in his seat and closes his eyes, just for a second. He’s fine. He can manage. It’s only a few days, and he’s fine.

Back on the twin bed, Jaymi sniffs once, twice, and says gently, “You alright, Georgie?”

Usually, Jaymi’s voice only makes George shiver when he’s singing. “Yeah, I’m – just need some air.”

The carpeting feels wrong on his feet when he stands. George has to take a few breaths before he can right himself and focus on the exit. But he can. He’s fine. He can manage. A few tablets and he’ll be right as rain; he shakes them into his hand and downs them on his way to the door.

“Georgie?” Jaymi’s voice is concerned. “Shoes?”

George shakes his head and lets out a nervous giggle. “Right! Shoes! For my feet. Forget my head if it weren’t screwed on, wouldn’t I?”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No!” George knows his eyes are black when he looks back over at Jaymi because the lights in the room are too bright and the last bleeding spillover around their curtains is blinding. “I’m really alright, Jaymi, I’m used to it. Just need some air. Smells – it smells in here.” He pushes open the door and steps out, letting it lock with a soft beep behind him. He rests against the smooth paneling for a moment to take stock of himself. 

Now that he isn’t so saturated in the scent of JaymiJaymiJaymi, it’s easier to think. Or else it was the tablets. George might have underestimated how different it would be to go through a Heat surrounded by Alphas, compared to being able to hide in his bedroom and get a bit of help along from Parisa, able to take a bit of refuge in his own bedding’s smell and the dark cocoa edges off her hair. This – the totality of it, the presence of sickly-sweet fire of it, George _gets_ it now, why it’s called a Heat. It’s burning him.

He slumps down to rest his hands on his knees and straightens quickly – the brush of his cock against his belly was, well, not unexpected, but he doesn’t want to urge it on any more. 

The corridor smells like Alpha, too, cut by industrial carpet cleaner but distinctive, Rylan’s incense and Ella’s clove and JJ’s grassy hay, all cut through with the syrup-sweet sludge of too-dark caramel. Maybe Clevedon is dull and hopeless, but at least he could escape – reality, there. He could pretend that this isn’t something he needs. He could pretend that it’s something he can manage.

George covers his face with both hands to block out the light and just breathes.

Palm sugar caramel vanilla crème brûlée lavender soap rose perfume acetate nail varnish dark dark lime-fruit slick _Caroline_ rests her hand on George’s shoulder. “Are you alright, Georgie?”

George nods, twitching out of her touch and into it at the same moment. “Fine. Air. Thanks.”

“George, are you – it’s not safe for you to lurk about alone right now; you know that. You have to know that.” Caroline’s hand is soft but strong, insistent, as she gently urges him away from the wall. “Come along, come with me. It’s dark in my room. For your eyes.”

George swallows and lets her wrap an arm around his waist, making all of his muscles sing. 

“You’re okay, George,” Caroline promises. “Nearly there. Just a few more steps, alright? You can lie down and I’ll get you some water, would you like that?”

“I’m okay,” George mutters. There’s a pause as Caroline unlocks her door with a soft beep. “Took tablets, just. Waiting. Wait it out.”

“Okay.” Caroline rubs his waist lightly and George squeaks. “Alright, just – it’s dark, you can open your eyes if you like.”

It’s a relief, the blue-edged gray and gold of seeing in the dark. He stumbles over his feet a bit, because there are no shadows to tell the distance, but George makes it to the edge of Caroline’s bed and sits, heavily, his needy nearly-hard dick pushing up the front of his sweatpants at an obscene angle. He shakes out his shoulders – Caroline’s room isn’t any less swirling in Alpha scent than his own room shared with Jaymi, after all – and breathes through his teeth. Once the Heat is fully set in, it’ll be more than a bit obscene, and it’s embarrassing, in front of Caroline. 

She locks her door and bolts it, too, and George blushes because he must be scenting awfully if she’s so concerned with keeping other people out. She’s glowing just as brightly as Jaymi, a white hologram in the dark, but she doesn’t – it doesn’t hurt the same way as he does, since George doesn’t –

Well.

The mattress dips as Caroline sits down beside George and carefully tucks her hand beneath the cotton of his t-shirt to scratch her nails lightly over the base of his spine. Gritting his teeth, George tries to tamp down the whimper trilling in his throat because it’s brilliant, she’s brilliant and the front of his pants has a spreading nickel of wet and it’s mortifying and wonderful.

“Do you want me to ring your Alpha, Georgie?” Caroline asks. The air is so cool where it touches his bare skin that George’s teeth want to chatter.

“Don’t have one,” he grunts. He presses the heel of his palm down, hard, over his trousers. “’M fine. Can manage. Only—only—one— _ooh_ , one—one-hundred forty—forty-two more.” He pants for a second because really, her fingernails are wicked and magical. “One forty one. After. Now.”

Caroline traces her hand up and down the bowed length of George’s knobbly spine. “That’s a long time to manage alone, George. When you don’t have to.”

His teeth are probably sparking in the dark. “D’you want me? Issat why you took me?”

“No, sweetie, I don’t,” Caroline says, regretfully. “But I don’t like seeing you suffer. And you have rehearsals.”

George whimpers again, because she’s right, of course she’s right; he can’t let the band down. This is why he can’t get jobs better than a barista. This is why he was deferred from uni. Like it or not, managing isn’t the same as solving. He can manage himself for five days and miss rehearsals, maybe even the live show, or he can – he can go find an Alpha, any Alpha, except Caroline, apparently, and be done in a night. Ella would be lovely. She’s young, but she’s kind, she’s lovely and smells good. Rylan, even. Maybe. Could be difficult to live with.

George is nodding before he realizes that he’s nodding. “Yes, I – can’t put it off any longer, can I?”

Caroline squeezes his shoulder with soft hands. “You can if you like, George. It’s your life.”

“I’m a J now,” George says. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, because he’s right, he knows he’s right, but he also feels so feverish that he can hardly stop shaking his leg. “I want to keep that life, too.” Caroline’s fingernails scratch up the nape of George’s neck and into the shag of his hair and he groans, doubling over and shivering. “Please?”

“Alright,” Caroline murmurs. She leans closer and the smell of her is overwhelming enough that George either has to hold his breath or come. She kisses the side of his head, and George is a bit enamored with her underneath the scent of it all. “D’you remember meeting Harry Styles?”

_Oh, god_.

“Yeah,” George says, tentatively.

“I think you’d really be happy together,” Caroline says. “He’s really sweet and funny, a good lad. He’s a good man, too. A good Alpha, I think. Easy on the eyes.” She pauses. “D’you want me to ring him?”

George shivers again and nods, turning to tuck his face into Caroline’s hair. He inhales, _palm sugar caramel vanilla crème brûlée lavender soap rose perfume_ , and shudders, the first small, almost-ignorable orgasm of the beginning of a Heat swelling through him with a pulse. _Fuck_.

Caroline’s nose twitches and she keeps her fingernails scritch-scratching through his hair. “Alright, sweetheart. Just hang on, only a minute, alright?”

George’s breath puffs out in shallow pants, stirring her hair in a way that tickles his nose, and her skin is warm and so, so close and he can smell her Alpha blood under it, swimming through her veins. Caroline kisses his head again and then extricates her hand from beneath his t-shirt and George whines as it falls down to cover him again, too hot, baking, boiling, on fire. Caroline stands and leaves the bed, sinks down inches as her high-heeled shoes come off, and takes her mobile from the top of the dresser, George’s huge, hungry black eyes staring at her in the dark.

_Get ahold of yourself._ George sucks in a cold breath through his teeth and rolls over onto his belly, pressing his dick against the mattress just – to keep it out of the way, ignore it, stop wanting to touch it. That doesn’t solve anything. He’s getting Caroline’s sheets messy. There’s blinding light that makes George whine as the door to Caroline’s room opens and she slips out to speak quiet words into her mobile in the hall, and George whines and shoves his face against pillows that smell like Caroline’s shampoo and Caroline’s hair and someone else, another Alpha, someone whose sharp sugary smell reminds him of autumn fairs and Halloween and forest and almond crumble. It’s a good smell, and it’s in Caroline’s bed.

He comes again, still quiet, and mutters _sorry Caroline_ even though she isn’t in the room. He can hear her in the corridor, can hear his name, but he can’t make out anything else through the blood rushing in his ears.

And then the blinding light is back and George whines. The door clicks shut and the deadbolt _shzucks_ and then the mattress dips again and there’s a solid hand on his back, rubbing gently. “You’re alright, George. You’re okay.”

George nods and lets Caroline urge him up, sitting so she can help him get the sweat-soaked t-shirt over his head and he shivers and shivers. 

“Shhh,” Caroline promises. “You’re alright. Harry’s going to come by, George, and if you want him when he gets here, he can give you a knot, okay? And it’ll all go away.”

George nods, black eyes taking over his face beneath a rumple of wild hair, and then he flops over, burying his face in Caroline’s lap where she smells the strongest, _palm sugar caramel acetate nail varnish dark dark lime-fruit slick yes yes here yes good_. George breathes and groans and Caroline’s nails draw lines down the back of his neck and around the tense muscles that hold up his shoulders.

“Can you lie on your back for me, George?” Caroline murmurs. “Let’s help you out a bit before Harry gets here so you have a clear head when he arrives, okay?” She moves his shoulders and George whimpers, licking his lips to try and chase the heady Alpha scent of her on his skin. “That’s it, just lie back.”

George nods and falls back against Caroline’s pillows, sending a waft of the smell of her shampoo puffing up around his face. He groans softly and reaches out for her waist, just trying to find an anchor, and Caroline allows it. She smiles down at George and murmurs, _just relax, George, you’re wound tight as a bobbin_ , and George thinks, distantly, that she’s charming.

Caroline’s thin fingers are undoing the tie on his soft trousers, and George strokes her waist with his thumb. She’s beautiful with her hair falling tousled over her face as she moves a little shyly in the dark, her pupils blown-out wide but unable to see through the blackness like George’s omega eyes. There’s still a ring of blue around them, and George mutters _pretty_. Her _thanks, love_ cuts over the top of his words in a rush as she helps him lift his hips to get down his pants and trousers. She takes his socks, too, with two curled fingers as his trousers fall from his ankles, and then George is naked and writhing a little because Caroline’s – the way she’s _looking_ at him and god, the smell of her is so strong George can almost see it.

“Shhh,” Caroline whispers. “You’re so loud I’m afraid someone will break my door down.”

George’s thighs splay open under Caroline’s hands. “Sorry.”

The backs of Caroline’s fingers are cool on the overheated insides of George’s thighs. She isn’t doing anything yet, just letting him get used to her skin and her scent. That’s almost worse, George thinks distantly as he rocks his hips and opens his legs out wider. He’s probably getting wet all over her bedspread. The tiny touches only egg him on, needier, making the guttural whimper grow in his throat. 

Caroline’s clothes are all still on, but George can smell her, the tantalizing dark fruit burning under the sugar. George’s hand falters on her waist, slips under the crisp-pleated edge of her blouse. Here, her skin feels almost as warm as his.

“Please?”

Caroline blinks and breathes and takes one hand off George to reach into her bedside table.

“Harry’s on his way here for you,” Caroline reminds him. The drawer shuts with a tap of her fingers. “We’re just taking the edge off a bit so you can think more clearly when you see him.” She gives George a secretive little smile. “Although I have to admit, it’s a bit hard to think clearly around Harry normally, and I’m not even an omega.”

It doesn’t make George smile back. He – it doesn’t really matter, does it, whether it’s Harry or Caroline or Ella or Rylan or, fucking – JJ, anyone else. He just needs to get a knot and let this Heat dissipate so he can get some sleep and be awake for tomorrow’s rehearsals, and anyway, whoever it is, George has a real commitment to Union J. They aren’t allowed to take that away from him, are they, unless he wants to leave the band. And he doesn’t. He’s doing this for the band.

God, and because it’s unbearable to smell that Alpha scent and not be fucking it or getting fucked by it or licking touching sniffing tasting feeling sliding his fingers up inside getting filled getting – 

mated.

George’s forehead crinkles as he groans, a splash of come hitting his stomach, and Caroline tests him with two careful fingertips that slip right inside, the Heat welcoming her in. “Just – anything,” George pants.

The hand not between George’s legs rubs over his belly soothingly, right through the wet puddle of come, and Caroline makes a soothing sound through her teeth. “I’ve got you. You ready?”

He’s been ready since she found him in the corridor. George nods anyway, first just affirming and then _urging_ as Caroline edges the blunt, contoured head of the silicone into him. It’s thinner than the toy Parisa had bought him, and George groans as his heels hit down on the bed in a pique of frustration. It drives the toy deeper inside, and that’s better, it’s better, but it’s still not –

“Ready?” Caroline asks again, and George looks up at her with melted snowflake teardrops caught in his eyelashes before she smiles at him and nudges the last of the toy in and -- something clicks. 

This is a real proxy, not just a brown-bag toy like Parisa was licensed to buy. This is a real fake knot. It flares out into a smooth ball and the pressure is good, it’s so good; George is almost sobbing with relief as he comes again. It twinges this time.

Caroline’s hair tickles across George’s chest as she bends down to kiss his sweaty forehead. She pushes some hair out of his face and gently thumbs at a lid so she can look at his black, black eyes. “Better?”

She taps at a button on the end of the toy and it vibrates lightly, rolling buzzes like the pulsing of an Alpha breeding his mate, and George can’t quite catch his breath. His fingers tear into Caroline’s bedspread, pulling into the threads of the sheet like he’ll find something to cling to.

Caroline’s fingers find his and weave together. She kisses his knuckles and lets him squeeze at her fingers until the beds around her varnished nails are white. After a few minutes, he calms, the need still immediate, but – hovering, fooled, for a minute, into thinking it’s been sated.

“Y’alright?”

George nods again. He’s already tired to his bones. And thirsty.

“Good,” Caroline says. She kisses the back of his hand again. “Harry’s arrived; I can hear him at the door. Do you want me to let him in, or do want to stay like this until Saturday?”

George swallows. His throat is dry. Caroline may be able to hear Harry at the door, but George can smell him. He knows, now, who the almond-scented autumn Alpha on Caroline’s sheets is, and it’s a scent that wraps into George’s insides and tugs. “I want him to give me a knot. Real one, I mean.”

Caroline smiles at him and brushes his stubborn fringe out of his eyes again. She stands, and George catches her arm before she gets too far.

“Yeah, Georgie?”

“Can I have some water first?”

Caroline laughs at that and nods. “Yeah, George. You can have some water.”

The wait, the aloneness of it, while Caroline gets a glass of water is enough to set George’s teeth on edge: it’s like he can only think between the beats of his heart, like a sculptor making a ship on the head of a pin, like a surgeon repairing a heart, like an archer killing an animal. 

He’s going to be Bonded.  
 _beat_  
He won’t have to worry about the Heat.  
 _beat_  
He won’t let anyone down; he won’t have to miss the show; he’ll get to perform.  
 _beat – beat – beat –_

George can’t think about it more than that, not right now, not when he can smell Harry on the other side of the door and Caroline is coming back, the warmth of her pulsing through the dark like Christmas. She changed her clothes while she was in the bathroom; the powdery smell of makeup is replaced on her skin with more lemon and lavender and soap. 

Caroline gives George a smile as she helps to prop him up enough to drink the glass of water she offers. He’s so shaky that he wraps both hands around the glass while Caroline brushes hair out of his face. The buzzing fire is building again under George’s skin, temporary satisfaction ebbing away as his body realizes that it’s only been fooled. He finishes off the water and pushes the glass into Caroline’s warm hands before melting against her side again, face against the side of her neck where her pulse can beat up against his lips.

“Are you – do you want to open the door, George?” Caroline asks. She rubs his arm. “Is that what you want? Because I can tell him to fuck off, if you’d rather.”

George shakes his head without lifting it from Caroline’s shoulder. “I can’t miss the show. Votes. For my face.” 

Caroline is very quiet as she keeps her hands moving softly over George’s arms and shoulders and the sensitive back of his neck where his hair is short and prickly. Through the heavy door, there’s a soft cough, a reminder that Harry is there, waiting. George nestles into Caroline’s arms a bit closer and, unbidden, comes up against the soft cotton of her pyjamas with a small, pained noise.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“That’s perfectly alright, George.” Caroline touches his cheek with the backs of her fingers. “Are you ready for me to let Harry in?”

_beat_

“Yes,” George says into Caroline’s neck. “Please let Harry in.”

Caroline’s long fingernails scratch delicately over his ribs once, making George shiver and another sad splash of come lick out of him, and she nods, easing George so that he’s propped up mostly of his own accord against the pillows. She bends down to kiss his hair again and brush at the wet splotch he left on her hip before she says, “Close your eyes, love, the corridor’s bright.”

When the door opens, the heels of George’s hands are pressed into his eyes. He whines anyway, at the bleeding red of the light and the sound of the elevator grating on its cables down the hall and the smell of crusted-over room service dishes left outside doors, festering marinara and gherkins and chocolate lava cake. Caroline’s voice is soft as she says _I’ll spend the night with Ella and Lucy_ , and then there’s a sound of lips brushing. And then the sound of the door clicks shut heavily.

“Hi, George.”

The scent of Harry reminds George of Halloween when he was very small, when even Tom still lived at home, like logs crackling in the fire and leaves falling outside in the rain and the soft, sweet, warming scent of almond cake baking to warm the whole room and cover it in comfort. 

George takes his hands away from his eyes. Harry is still tall and broad, his shoulders and hips making a perfect triangle in the way that George knows his never will, and his hair is an artfully arranged rumple around his face. He’s wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt that looks like it’s had fingers tugged into it, strangely misshapen over Harry’s chest. He toes slowly out of brown suede shoes, his eyes never leaving George’s face.

It would have been really nice to be clothed, meeting Harry again. It’d’ve been nice not to be sweaty and come-covered and spread open by a massive vibrator, nice to be in his own bed, nice not to have shaky hands and flexing toes and jittering knees, nice not to meet again like _this_ but instead just backstage at the show wishing luck for a performance or running into each other at a club, Rylan’s birthday next week or – at a concert. Anywhere, any _way_.

“Hi.” The word feels stuck in George’s throat. He clutches at the sheet and pulls it up absently, squirming a bit as he feels some wetness from his scenting trickle onto the inside of his thigh. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Harry repeats. He takes two tentative steps closer to the bed. “Is – Caroline said you needed, you don’t have an Alpha Bond yet?”

George shakes his head. Harry is glowing blue-white in the dark, soft around the edges like a mirage.

“I don’t have an omega Bond,” Harry continues, taking another step closer to the bed. “Did, are you, basically, is that what you’re looking for?”

“Need a knot,” George answers, “Show on Saturday.”

“Right,” Harry says softly. “I can give you a knot, if you want me.” He edges up close enough that one knee tucks up onto the mattress. “How are you feeling?”

George whimpers through his nose and keeps clutching Caroline’s sheets as he comes again from the sudden _closeness_ of Harry and the loss of Caroline’s gentle touches and the insistent, mechanical, unreal vibrating of the toy inside him. Harry’s nose twitches at that, taking in the scent of it, the scent of George in Heat, and George pushes himself up onto his knees to launch himself clumsily at Harry for that, pawing with shaky fingers at the fly of Harry’s jeans. “Please, please, please, just – I just need a knot, Harry, I’m sorry, please?”

“Don’t be sorry,” Harry murmurs. He touches the side of George’s neck so, so lightly with the tips of two fingers. “Don’t be sorry.” He stills George’s shaky hands with his own steady, warm ones. “You’re _sure_ you want _me_ to knot you?”

_beat. beat_ “I just – I – ” George collapses down to press his face up against the bottom of Harry’s stomach, too tired to do anything except gulp in Harry’s smell. The smell makes him ache, a throbbinghotneedy stab of pain down George’s spine and Harry still isn’t moving and _why isn’t he moving, Alphas are supposed to be insensible aren’t they they’re supposed to take take take_. Tears well in George’s eyes and he bites at the cotton of Harry’s shirt, tugging at it with his teeth just enough that Harry has to notice him, just notice him. 

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, and his long, long fingers are in George’s hair, “It’s okay, yeah, I will, I just – I had to ask. Can you look at me?”

It’s not something George particularly wants to do. Looking means waiting, looking means – looking means something, a lot, looking means being looked back at and George doesn’t really want that right now. He glances up at Harry through his wet eyelashes, the look of him distorted. Harry’s eyes are dark, too, pupils wide to let in as much of George as Harry can see through the absence of light in Caroline’s hotel room. George holds his gaze just long enough to blink and then he moans, nudging his head up into Harry’s fingers and arching his back to offer his bum.

“Okay,” Harry says. 

George groans gratefully and sets his fingers to Harry’s fly again, determined to get it open and get it over with. He can feel Harry’s cock under his fingertips as the slip on the buttons. It’s – George doesn’t want to think _huge_ because even though the thick film of want, that makes him nervous, but it’s bigger than any of the toys he kept under his mattress back home and it’s bigger than the one buzzing inside him right now. He knew, he’d – that’s an Alpha thing, isn’t it. But under George’s fingertips, Harry is warm and there’s a heartbeat there, George can feel it through his trousers, and it isn’t a plastic toy with a battery mimicking life. It’s real. Harry is real. 

And Harry is his, or will be, will be George’s Alpha. That makes George’s hands shake with something else entirely.

Once the buttons are all open, there’s only skin and scent and it’s too much. George glances up at Harry again, who’s standing so, so still and just watching George, letting George move and touch and smell and come, still high on the vibrator pulsing away inside him. He looks like he wants to say something, but George doesn’t know what.

Instead, Harry slowly, slowly reaches behind his head and starts to pull off his t-shirt. His body is all muscle under the skin, taut and powerful and broad and George feels –

small.

He bites the inside of his cheek and closes his eyes, but that just seems to flood the air around him with Harry’s scent again, sweethotpressing closer and closer and there’s another note now, salt like the swells off Clevedon pier, salt-sweat and something else, something heady and protein and enough to make George turn over onto his hands and knees.

“Oh,” Harry breathes from behind him as his head emerges from his shirt. “That’s – okay. Fast. D’you want, like, I could. Whatever, really.”

The mattress dips with Harry’s weight and George’s breath stutters in his chest, a blot of come hitting his stomach in a jolt that hurts. George tucks his face down between his forearms and just breathes; after a minute, there’s a weight to the air over the curve of his back and he knows Harry’s hand is hovering, not touching yet but close enough that they can measure the space of each other.

“Touch me,” George grits. “It’s fine.”

“I know, I’m just – ” Harry cuts himself off and then his hand is on George’s back, low near his waist. Harry’s palm and fingers are big enough that he’s almost able to span George from one side to the other. He rubs over the damp skin lightly and George whimpers as he comes again, muscles feeling bruised. “Wow,” Harry whispers. “Sorry, I’ve just never seen this in real life. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” George croaks. He shifts his knees to raise his bum a bit. “Can you?”

“Yeah.” Harry sounds a bit faint. “Erm, I’m gonna turn this off, then.” 

The silence in the room after the buzzing stops, the plastic knot deflates, sounds like the sky after a thunderstorm – waiting, heavy, paused between explosions. Harry braces one hand on George’s waist, stroking lightly with his thumb, and eases the toy out of George with the other. George whimpers at the emptiness of it, and he blushes at the wet scenting that he can tell gets onto Harry’s fingers.

“Fuck, George,” Harry murmurs. “That’s – sorry, you’re so wet.”

Like he doesn’t know.

George keeps his face hidden. “Sorry, I know it’s gross.”

“It’s not gross, are you kidding me?” Harry asks. The mattress shifts again and then George gasps as one of Harry’s tentative fingertips brushes too-lightly over him. “I think it’s amazing. You’re so fit, and you smell so good.” He laughs once under his breath. “Like satsumas.”

“Okay,” George says, pushing back against Harry’s hand. “Can you like – just – ” The tip of Harry’s finger slides into George easily and George shudders. “More.”

“More?” Harry asks, his voice a rumbling low rasp. He slides his finger all the way into George with a curl, then adds a second. “Like that?”

_He’s playing games_ , George thinks, and he bites hard into the damp blankets on Caroline’s bed. He doesn’t need fingers, he isn’t a beta – he’d Googled it once, years ago, because he didn’t understand: _how do betas have sex?_. A high whine builds in his throat. “I guess.”

“You guess?” Harry’s hand stills. The fingers of his other hand keep trailing lightly up and down George’s spine, counting bones. “I, can you turn over so I can see your face?”

George hesitates, wavering and too-hot and so, so embarrassed. It had taken years before he would even face Parisa during. Hands and knees, standard, functional, missionary, and it wasn’t – there isn’t much point to other positions, as far as George is concerned, and the idea of being looked in the face… the idea of _Harry Styles_ looking him in the face during is humiliating. But maybe that’s why Harry wants it. There are Alphas like that. It’s why things like those late-night adverts for _omegas On Cam!_ exist.

George winds his hands around the pillow sitting askew at the head of the bed, clutching it close. Harry’s hand is still moving on George’s back, but George can feel the frisson of his nerves in it now. He closes his eyes and rolls over. Harry’s fingers follow the same path on George’s skin, touching around the curve of his narrow ribs before splaying flat against George’s chest. 

“You’re gorgeous.” Harry touches one of George’s nipples, tiny and pert, and George whimpers, unsure whether his body is begging to move into or away from the feeling. “I mean, you were gorgeous before, when we met, but you’re like incredible like this.” Harry wraps his hand around George’s waist. “You’re so little.” George’s breath comes fast and shallow in his chest, eyes still shut tight against Harry’s scrutiny. He isn’t gorgeous. His face is red and splotchy and there are smears and stains of come all over his front. His thighs are shaky and wet. His small cock is probably bruise-purple by now and so hard it’s curved up towards his soft concave belly. Harry’s hand wraps around it lightly and George arches, crying out at the _toomuchtoomuchness_ of it as he comes in a thick spurt over Harry’s fingers. 

“Wow,” Harry repeats. 

Biting the inside of his cheek, George fumbles for Harry’s wrist and clutches it, pushing his hand away from George’s cock. “Don’t – please, too – fuck, _ow_.”

“Sorry!” Harry sounds scandalized. “Sorry, should’ve, yeah, looks sensitive.”

George keeps gritting his teeth, but nods, spreading his thighs. “Can you just?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Alright.” He runs his hands over the insides of George’s thighs, pressing them open a little wider to fit between them, and George tips his head back, resting it against the pillow to take in the last minutes that he’s unBonded. He doesn’t, he hasn’t, the toy Caroline gave was different enough, something unexpected, but George doesn’t know what a Bond will feel like. How it will be for his Heat to dissipate early. He exhales, thinking about how he’ll get to spend tonight in his own bed and actually asleep. 

There’s a soft tickle against George’s collarbone, and then the unmistakable warm, wet, gentle press of lips as Harry kisses George’s chest lightly. 

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs, and then he’s pressing into George, blunt head slipping up against the wet-stretched rim of him. 

George huffs a breath, wriggling a little. He’s so wet and he’s made to take an Alpha, but Harry is moving so slowly and the bulk of him is so big that George grunts, one of his hands tearing into the pillow beside his head.

Harry’s nose nudges the ticklish underside of George’s arm. “You can – like, if you want, you can touch me. Like hang onto my shoulders. If you want.”

George doesn’t need that. He just groans as the thick, plummy head of Harry’s dick finally pushes all the way into him, and George comes again; a pained whimper bites out of his throat and he tugs at his hair.

Harry’s lips press lightly to the column of George’s neck. “Sorry. I’m trying to go slow.”

“Don’t have to,” George assures him, panting. “Fast – better.”

Harry laughs softly. “That’s what I always think, too, but, jesus, George, I’ll knot before I’m in you if I go fast.”

George chokes a half-shot groan and bites his cheek against the rest of the noise as he comes and it _hurts_ this time, already too many, and it’s too much, Harry’s too big and it’s too slow and he just wants—he just wants, and he wants, and he wants more of it and he wants it to be over and he wants _Harry_ and he didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect to want it. Or him. It’s too much but it’s better, it’s so much better, and every cell and fiber and tendon and string in George’s body is singing out like a harp that this is _it_. _This_ is it.

George is sobbing against the pillows by the time Harry’s pushed all the way into him, hips flush against George’s thighs and bum. 

“Are you okay?”

George nods, still clutching into fabric even though Harry is right there, warm and expansive and smelling sweet and good. “’M okay, move move move.”

Harry nods, lips pink and eyes huge under his fringe, and gently, carefully runs his hand behind George’s hips to move them how he wants before rocking slowly, once, in and out of George’s body again. George grits his teeth and lets come splash up onto Harry’s chest this time, squeaking a little at the rawness of it. 

Harry moves again, a long, slow, wet slide. “That good?”

_beat_  
Yes.

No.  
 _beat_  
Not enough.

So, so much not enough, George wants more, wants deep and _all all all_ and he wraps his legs around Harry’s waist, pressing his heels into the dimples at the base of Harry’s back to get moremoremoremoremoremoremoremoremore and—

“Fuck, oh—god, sorry,” Harry grunts, but George isn’t paying any attention because this

is so much more than a plastic toy

and Harry is shaking over him,  
and inside George, there’s a pulse, a shudder, a warmwarmwetter.

There’s a _bond_.

Harry tucks his face into the curve of George’s neck like he’s the one who needs grounding, like he’s smaller, like he can fit into all of George’s spaces like George fits into Harry’s, arms and legs all wrapped around each other like the double helix of DNA shifting and changing. He’s murmuring something against George’s neck and George can feel every tiny touch of his lips in a crescendo that starts with the tiny fluttering of a hummingbird and builds until there’s a symphony of wings in George’s chest, bursting to get out.

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Warnings:** Sexual content (slash [penetrative PiA, mentions of ejaculate); mentions of sex trafficking, rape culture; graphic sexual dialogue.

** Genesis **

**_NEWS_ : Essex man jailed after lengthy omega trafficking sting** |  **_LOCAL FEATURE_ : Tottenham pair still together after 60 years; how did they do it?**  
---|---  
A court has found one Essex man in conjunction with several foreign nationals guilty in the trade of omega individuals “studded” for the sex trade. The trafficking ring is estimated to have profited millions in international sale of enslaved individuals to Alphas and betas in the UK, United States, Germany, and Japan. After being force-Bonded to so-called “stud Alphas,” upwards of twenty individuals were sold annually between 2001-2010, when law enforcement officials in the UK in conjunction with the United States’ FBI and international research organizations arrested Ronald Dervishi, 34, of Essex. Trial began in March 2011 in [STORY CONTINUED A4] | A telegram from the Queen is in order for Eugene Poole, 79, and his pair-Bonded omega and legal wife, Dorothy, 78, of Tottenham. The coupling met at Rowland Hill Secondary Modern School in Lordship Lane, now closed, in the 1930s, and Bonded after their matriculation. “Gene went off to University,” remembers Dorothy, “And I raised our children.” Of which they have fourteen! Eugene served in the RAF Bomber Command in the Second World War while Dorothy aided in local fundraisers and volunteered as a nurse after the Blitz. Eugene retired in 2000 from Newey & Eyre, now a division of Rexel. Felicitations to their children; Robert, Alice, Mary, Martha, Howard, Lee, Patricia, Barbara, Debbie, Harold, Irene, Katherine, William, and Carole; their 38 grandchildren; and 12 great-grandchildren around the globe, for their Alpharchical parents’ achievements. Thanks to Debbie Thompson nee Poole for letting us know about her parents’ story. [For more Local Features, turn to section D]  
  
***

There isn’t enough air in the world to fill George’s lungs and he gasps, shivering in cold shock as the Heat breaks and the only warmth he can find is _Harry_. He clings. He claws, he grabs. It isn’t—what he thought it would be. He can think, and he can’t, all at once. But what he can think is that _he’s still George_.

He’s always been afraid that when – when, when, _if_ \-- if this happened, if he got knotted, if he got Bonded, he wouldn’t be _George_ anymore. He would be _someone’s omega_ instead. 

But he isn’t.

He is, though.

And he isn’t.

Because he can feel Harry inside him, not just the—the literal, where Harry is still huge and pulsing and their bodies are trying to breed, but inching through his veins, too, the capillaries set alight with something soft like melted butter, something coating and comforting and oozy until it sets, a new shape assigned, all of George’s body sighing into its new place to the tune of _ah, yes, Harry. That’s right._ But even as every tendon and vessel and tissue and joint and cell and atom and every tiny chromosome that makes George a Shelley settles, singing, into its new place as Harry’s omega, Harry’s mate, Harry’s, George’s brain rolls over, taking stock of itself. Of himself. And George knows, with a relief that could make him cry, that he’s still just George.

Because the thing is, they warn you about it changing you. Being knotted. But they don’t tell you _how_.

Harry is shaking over George, his eyes dark and wide and tremulous when George finally manages to open his own and glance up at Harry above him. 

He doesn’t know what to say.

So he doesn’t say anything at all.

Eventually, in the dark, the rolling pulse of Harry coming slows and stops. He’s heavy on top of George, hips and bellies and chests perfectly aligned. George swallows and keeps staring at the ceiling: he knows it will be at least another half an hour before Harry’s knot deflates and George can just.

Go back to his own bed.

His own room, his own things. 

And Harry can, too.

George doesn’t know what to do with his legs. They’re still tucked up around Harry’s hips, and Harry isn’t moving—can’t, physically, move very much, and neither can George—but that seems, it seems different, now, to stay all wrapped around Harry, now that they aren’t mating. He glances around the room and tentatively moves one leg a little, his skin sliding against Harry’s.

Harry’s breath puffs against George’s collarbone. His fingertips trail lightly, lightly over George’s ribs in return.

George coughs. He stops moving his leg.

Something blooms behind George’s bones wherever Harry touches in tiny brushes of his fingertips and one quick-as-a-wink cup of his palm around the curve of George’s hip. A few weeks before his audition, George had seen a documentary about the ocean on BBC3 when he was awake in the middle of the night over a font that wouldn’t kern properly for his Graphic Design course—the way anemones curl to follow their prey, the way they wrap around passersby just looking for solace with hundreds of tiny, beautiful arms to consume it. ( _But_ , the back of George’s brain needles, _not everything. They protect the clownfish they claim their own: symbiosis. They need each other._ ) Harry’s thumb brushes over the column of George’s neck, his four fingertips along the side and his palm pressed to the skin and he could press down, crush down so, so easily and George’s eyes squeeze shut as he whimpers because he knows he knows he knows _mutual benefit mutual benefit_ but he also knows—he doesn’t know Harry.

“Sorry,” Harry whispers, and his hand moves away to slide down George’s shoulder instead, measuring his arm. “I wouldn’t—I’m, but you didn’t know that. I was trying to figure out how your voice is so deep without an Earth’s apple. Stupid, sorry.”

“Not—it’s not stupid,” George mutters. “I don’t know; I didn’t get a GCSE in biology.”

“I did,” Harry says. “I just don’t remember. Something with your larynx, I guess.”

“I guess.”

Harry smiles down at George, brown curls in his eyes, and the hand not propping himself up gently comes up to brush George’s fringe away. The pad of his thumb brushes over George’s cheekbone and down around the angle of his jaw before—

He’s touching George’s lips. George can taste salt and something heady, bitter and thick, on Harry’s skin and he knows that it’s _come_ , there’s come in his mouth, and it’s disgusting—it’s demeaning. He jerks back away from the touch and shrinks into the pillows. George coughs, gagging a little.

“Sorry,” Harry whispers, so quietly George can barely hear it. “I just keep doing everything wrong.”

There’s no real way to argue with that, because George doesn’t know exactly what Harry thinks he’s meant to be doing. They’re already Bonded; George can feel it settling into his bones and wrapping around the insides of his belly as his body sets itself to Harry’s frequency. There isn’t much to be done wrong when George’s DNA is adapting itself to be Harry’s already—George can’t think what more Harry expected this to be, the Bonding. 

George shifts a little, uncomfortable on the wet mattress, and Harry moves with him, big hands slipping beneath George to lift him up enough that Harry can roll them both carefully onto their sides where the mattress is very nearly dry and, at least, cool. George can finally straighten one of his legs and he does, sighing in great satisfaction even as his knee creaks. (Harry isn’t doing everything wrong. He could be doing worse, George knows. George has been prepared for worse his whole life, and now it’s just a matter of keeping the shoes balanced so they don’t drop.)

Harry keeps an arm still wrapped around George’s waist as they lay like this, and George resents that it settles him, warm and close and he feels—something. He doesn’t know what, exactly, but it makes his heart feel funny and he isn’t sure he likes it. But he isn’t sure he doesn’t. 

“You’re really, really fit,” Harry murmurs. The sweeping pattern he’s drawing against the small of George’s back is making George sleepy. “You’re actually beautiful, I think.”

George’s lips pinch. All omegas are beautiful. It’s just a fact. Facts aren’t compliments. They’re just… facts.

Harry isn’t bad-looking. George knows, really, that all Alphas are good-looking, too, but he’s never paid much attention to them in particular because before, he didn’t know any, and now, he knows a lot, but they also got the television treatment so of course they have good skin and flattering haircuts and whatever else. He knows Ella is beautiful, with her sparkling eyes and lush figure, but Parisa is beautiful, too, and she’s just a beta. ‘Beautiful’ doesn't much matter. There’s nowhere else to look now, though, than at Harry.

They really don’t look alike at all. George can’t even see how people think they do. Either because their faces are so close together or because Harry’s George’s Bond now, George can see more in his face than he did when they met. There are small freckles at the corner of Harry’s mouth and the sides of his eyes. His eyebrows meet in the middle, just a bit. He has the soft fuzz of nighttime facial hair growing—something George never will; omegas don’t grow it. 

That light, tickly hair is what rubs up against George’s neck as Harry bends his head to touch his lips to George’s skin. It feels—

Different. 

Parisa’s kissed George like that before, but never when he wasn’t entrenched in a Heat. And it never lingered like this, soft and sucking. George shivers, but towards or away, he doesn’t know.

He coughs again, and Harry raises his head, a light smile playing on his lips. They are nice lips, George thinks. Very red. Like a cartoon.

And then those lips start heading towards George’s mouth. And George turns his head so all Harry gets is his cheek, low by the edge of George’s jaw.

“Oh,” Harry whispers.

“I think your knot’s going down,” George says quietly. 

Harry’s hips shift a bit, and there’s a tug, but it doesn’t hurt. Harry blinks, slowly, face a little crumpled, and he nods. “Yeah. Think you’re right.”

They’re both silent and still in the last long stretch before Harry’s knot finally deflates completely and George pulls back, Harry’s soft cock slipping out of him with a last wet sound that makes George’s nose wrinkle. In the dark, without his eyes adjusted, the smell of them—both of them, together, the smell of HarryandGeorge all citrus and spice—is overwhelming. The wet blankets are just cold and rough. George’s skin needs washing.

He wriggles away from Harry and takes a deep breath before finding his way out of Caroline’s giant hotel bed and standing. His clothes must be somewhere nearby on the floor.

“Oh.” Harry sounds surprised, and a bit cautious. “Are you—are you cold?”

“I’m going back to my room,” George says, even as already the marrows of his bones start to frizzle with panic that he isn’t touching Harry anymore. “I have rehearsal in the morning. I’m sure you have popstar things to do.”

“No, I—after Cazza rang me, I canceled everything for the day,” Harry says softly. “I thought I’d spend it with you.”

“I’m busy.” George finally finds his sweatpants, wet at the back, folded over one of Caroline’s desk chairs and he tugs them on, stumbling a little on his shaky legs. His t-shirt is beneath it, and George gets it over his head before he realizes that it’s on backwards. No matter. No one’s looking. It’s the middle of the night. “Erm.” He turns to face Harry. 

Harry’s sitting up in the bed, blankets pooled around his waist. His hair is a rumpled curly halo and his ears stick out from beneath it. He’s staring at George like the panic in his bones is somehow worse than George’s, and it makes George angry that Harry should expect him to give up a day just to appease him when the whole point of this fucking Bonding was so George wouldn’t have to give up any more days. Harry’s fingers are twisted in the sheets like if he can’t hold George, he’ll just hang onto them.

“Erm,” George repeats. He pushes his trembling fingers through his hair. “Thanks for, you know, coming out. I know you’re busy, too. I—thanks. I’ll, erm, I’ll see you when I see you. Er—tell Caroline I’ll get her sheets laundered and stuff. Or I guess the hotel will, but tell her I’m sorry all the same. You’ll probably see her before I do.”

Harry’s tongue pokes out to wet his lower lip and he nods. His chest is caved back like he’s been sucker-punched. “Alright.”

George waves awkwardly. “Night.”

“Good night, George,” Harry mutters. He pulls the sheets up around himself, and George nods a few times as he backs out of Caroline’s room. 

As soon as the door is shut and he can’t see Harry anymore, the panicked frisson in his bones spreads to his organs and they all go over jelly, wriggly and shrieking and trying to reel him in back to Harry like they’re on the opposite sides of an elastic band and the further they’re apart, the more acute the stretch until, eventually, one of them is bound to snap back into the other.

It can’t be George.

He has things to do.

It’s why he’s here.

His room is just down the hall, around the corner, steps forward. He steps forward. Finally, he finds his door.

The shaking of George’s fingers makes it hard to fumble around in his pockets. His empty pockets. He’d forgotten his key earlier, and the carpet is soft under his feet—oh, he’s left his shoes in Caroline’s room. That’s alright. He doesn’t need to go back for them. He doesn’t remember where the room is, anyway, and she can give him his shoes at rehearsal. Or whenever they see each other next. 

He rests his forehead against the door and just… breathes. He can still pick up traces of the sweet sugary Alpha scents that are brushed against the surfaces of the hallway, but they’re all dimmed now, the urgency of earlier like a mirage. Except one: George can pick out the path Harry walked, his special autumn-and-almond smell leading the way back to where he’s undoubtedly still in Caroline’s bed. There’s a tug in George’s gut that begs him to follow, to pick out the places Harry touched along the wall and use them as a guide back to him.

But there’s George’s own bed just through this fucking door that he can’t open. His own clean pyjamas, a shower with his own soap and his own shampoo, a new pair of his own shoes and his own blankets and pillow. His life. The one he chose. The one he can just get back to now if he can _open the fucking door_.

Eyes squeezed shut tight, George scrubs a hand over his face and breathes. The tugging in his gut clenches at the soft tendrils of Harry beckoning him back.

George knocks at his hotel room door. “Jaymi?” His voice breaks, and he coughs before trying again, knocking more loudly. “Jaymi?”

There’s a _one second!_ from inside the room, and a long wait as George wraps his arms around himself to hold in the buzzing jump in his gut and keep himself where he is.

The door opens. Jaymi smells softer at night, the sting of smoke gone. There’s black stubble on his chin and cheeks and his eyes are droopy with sleep as he squints against the light of the corridor. 

“George?” Jaymi’s nose works once, twice, as George sneaks around him and into their room. “George—” A hand wraps around George’s arm as he attempts to make a break for the bathroom to get in a hot shower. “George, what happened? Talk to me, talk to me _right now_.”

“Nothing,” George mutters. “I’m—nothing happened, I just want to shower and go to bed.”

“George.” Jaymi hauls him in so he can look at George’s eyes, but George keeps glancing away. He knows what Jaymi smells on him and he doesn’t—it’s not worth talking about. “What happened?” 

Their eyes meet, and Jaymi looks so concerned, so safe, so softly shimmering with Olly’s faint scent and so fucking happy that way and why couldn’t George have just—everything is dulled, even under the still-bubbling outseep of Heat and the quietude of night, and George misses Jaymi’s smoke and brown sugar vanilla. They’re there, he knows, but he can’t—quite—find them—

And that’s really what makes George start to cry. 

The whole world is the same, except for him. 

It _has_ changed him.

He barrels into Jaymi’s chest, tucked in against the black tattoos and freckled pale skin and soft rumpled cotton of his t-shirt, and he sobs. He can hear Jaymi’s heart racing under his ear and Jaymi’s clucking softly, humming, rubbing George’s back. His fingers are cold on the back of George’s neck.

“Oh, god, George, come on, talk to me,” Jaymi murmurs, and they sink down to sit so George can curl up in Jaymi’s lap. “I never should have let you out there by yourself, fuck, _fuck_ \--George, talk to me, do we need to ring someone? 999?”

“ _No_ ,” George insists, “It’s not like _that_. I—I—I asked for it.”

“George, going outside alone was not—”

“ _No_ , I mean I really did, with words.” George shakes his head against Jaymi’s chest. “I’m fine, really, it’s just—a lot. It’s just a lot.”

Jaymi nods against the top of George’s head, prickles of his nighttime beard scratching through George’s soft, damp hair. They’re silent for a long time, Jaymi’s heart still jackrabbitting in his chest and George crying dry, wracking silent shakes of tears against his shirt. Jaymi rubs circles over George’s damp back with a soft, tentative hand and lets him cry until the sky outside their window goes just barely pink in the distance.

“Can you tell me who it is?” 

George shakes his head. His eyes feel so puffy that he can barely open them properly. There’s an ache deep in his gut begging him to go find Harry. It’s more than that, now that he’s sat with it for hours; he can feel a pull in it underneath that’s part of Harry, too, alone in Caroline’s room and not quite sure why, a loneliness that breaks over his bones like disappointment. (George wonders if that means Harry can feel him, too, still awake and—

How does he even feel?

“George,” Jaymi whispers, and lips press to the top of his head. All of the sweat has dried, and George knows he’s shivering everywhere that isn’t tucked up against Jaymi. “George, do you absolutely promise that you wanted this? Because if you didn’t, I will tear someone limb from limb, it’s my fault; this is all my fault, I never should have let you walk around by yourself last night, and—”

“Jesus, it’s not your fault,” George snaps, and he finally pushes himself up to stumble over to his bed. “First, I did want it. I asked—I asked for help finding someone. And second, I’m not your responsibility. I’m, if, it wasn’t—it wasn’t that. I don’t want to talk about… that, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Jaymi says softly. He stands and his knees crack in the warming dark of their shared room. “We don’t have to. You’d tell me, though, right, if—”

“I would,” George says shortly. “But it wasn’t. I wanted it, and I asked for it, and I got it, and I made this choice all by myself because it’s what I wanted and I needed it and we’re going to smash—smash the show on Saturday and I’ll get to stay here and it’ll be good. It’ll be good.” He pushes the blankets off and climbs out of bed again. “I’m going to take a shower. It’s nearly time for call.”

It isn’t. There are two hours before call, but everyone likes to meet with enough time for breakfast and a chat. George usually sits with Ella and the rest of the J’s; sometimes Caroline joins them, when she’s awake, or Olly Murs. Dermot tried for a bit but George has never gotten over having nervous laugh attacks the moment Dermot tries to address him, and, as Dermot finally declared over tea and a croissant in Week 2, “half-seven is just too early for Shelley giggles.”

George fills the bath, still wriggly and squirming in his belly. The water runs so hot that wisps of steam float over the surface and coat the mirrors in white. When George undresses and looks at his reflection, it’s blurry and barely there. 

He hisses as he steps into the water and it plumps his skin pink. Dried patches of come and sweat and scent slime off him and cloud the water with freckles on its skin like an oil slick. George just sighs, settling back into the water and resting his head against the spigot, eyes closed. No different. This is no different than any bath he’s ever taken after a Heat. From here on out, everything will be just the same.

After he’s bathed so long the water turned cold, George lets out the plug. He avoids the mirror as he waits for the water to drain around his toes before he turns on the showerhead and sets to cleaning up, to get those oil slicks off his skin. Clinical, clean, quick, the way he always showers; head to toe down the front and up the back.

He’s still wet between his legs.

That’s different.

George holds onto the soapdish and closes his eyes to breathe, taking stock of himself: thoughts still clear, muscles only sore from the exertion of the night before, not with the pinprick tingling pain of the Heat. He’s over it. It’s over.

What is--?

“ _Oh_ ,” George whispers, realization slapping him in the face. “Oh, gross. Oh, fuck.” He turns the water up hotter again and groans in despair as he takes a flannel to the tops of his thighs and starts to scrub. 

He’s still scrubbing forty-five minutes later, his skin red and eyes teary. Every time he stops and starts to step out of the shower, more of Harry’s come leaks out of George’s bum. And not just tiny trickles; he could deal with that, it’d be like forgetting to take a tablet in the morning with his coffee and before his suppressors, but this—people could _see_. Even through jeans. 

There’s a knock at the bathroom door. 

“Jaymi, go away!”

“It’s not Jaymi,” Josh calls through the wood. “I thought—Jaymi said you might need me. Or, you know, someone else, but I’m the only other omega here, and he thought it might be awkward to tell you to ring Olly if you didn’t want to talk to me, but if you don’t want to talk to me, I can slide Olly’s number under the door on a napkin or something. George, are you okay?”

“I’m fine!”

“Jaymi says you’ve been in there an hour and we have to go to rehearsal. Also he told me to feed you, so you have to come out. What’d’you want, oatmeal?”

George growls under his breath and wriggles under the cold stream of water from the shower, contorting until he slips on the wet floor and has to waffle for the soapdish to stay upright. “No, I don’t want oatmeal. Go away, Josh.”

“I don’t think I will,” Josh says casually, and George can hear him slide down to rest against the door. “You aren’t trying to drown yourself, are you?”

“No, and you can’t drown in a _shower_ , I’m just—I’m trying to shower, and I don’t, I don’t know how to get it out of me!” George sobs once in frustration. “I keep being clean and then more fucking leaks out and it’s disgusting!”

“Yeah,” Josh agrees. “That happens. You get used to it. It’s worse after the first time, so you’re really getting it today. It won’t be so bad again.”

“That doesn’t help me right _now_!” George gives up and sits down in the tub, elbows on his knees. “You don’t, there’s no way you just plod around every fucking day with a tsunami of JJ’s spunk coming out your bum; do you wear a _nappy_ , what do I _do_?”

“Maybe I do,” Josh says easily. “You don’t know.”

“No, you don’t, I’ve seen you without trousers; stop being a prat.” George makes a miserable gargly noise as more come makes itself known. “ _Josh_! I really don’t know how to do this, they never—I didn’t even know it would _do_ this, I thought I’d just, you know, absorb it.”

“Like a sponge?”

“Yes!”

“He lives in a pineapple under the sea,” Josh hums. “Alright, just—you know, you get it out how you think you would. Just, like, with your fingers. Like wanking, but with a different purpose. Or kill two birds with one stone.”

“What’d’you mean, wanking?” George asks, writhing a little. _Fingers_. No, thank you. “Like whining?”

There’s a silence. “Have you never wanked?”

“I’m wanking now, if wanking is whining!”

“It—no, it’s not,” Josh says. His voice softens and he knocks at the door again, just brushing with his knuckles until George realizes that he’s still playing the fucking Spongebob theme. It’ll be in his head all day. Stupid pineapple-head Josh. “It’s not a big deal, George, everyone does it. The wanking, I mean, but also all omegas have to like… clean up. After. Just do it. Nobody but me will know, and we’ll get you some coffee, okay?”

“Don’t listen,” George pleads through the door, still sitting on the tub floor with his fringe full of cold water. 

“I won’t,” Josh assures him. “I’ll watch television. I’ll get a Pay-Per-View on Jaymi’s tab.”

And he does; George can hear him. Josh doesn’t move with any sort of grace, even though he’s actually compact guy—just taller than JJ, which isn’t really saying much—and George can hear him get to his feet and trod across the floor, a creak of a bed as Josh clambers onto it to watch telly. He keeps the volume up loud so George can hear that it’s really on, and George is grateful. His face feels on fire, and it’s uncomfortably wet and sticky, but it doesn’t hurt. And Josh is right, that makes the dripping stop. George’s teeth chatter as he shuts off the water and finally, finally, gets out of the shower to wrap up in soft flannels.

He moves slowly, drying off between his toes and up around his ankles, under his knees. He’s used to being sore after a Heat, his joints tender for a few days before and a few days after. He’s used to his muscles being so spent they’re practically sprained.

But they aren’t.

He feels fine.

Better, even, than he usually does even in the two blissful weeks between the lows of his Heat cycle. His skin looks clearer. His muscles feel stronger. He has _energy_ even though he’d only slept a few fitful hours. Sounds are crisper, but duller at the same time, like his ears are searching out for sounds of Harry and filtering everything else into background noise just for not being him.

Once he’s fully wrapped up tight in flannels from hair to ankles, George steps out of the bathroom and makes his way to his closet. 

Over on the bed, Josh rolls over and looks at George from beneath his rhino horn of hair. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” George picks out a pair of loose brick red trousers and a plain t-shirt. He can tie a plaid shirt around his waist, too, just in case he’s still leaky. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Josh says pointedly. “I didn’t Bond last night. And when I did, I spent the next week in JJ’s bed ‘cause it hurt to be away from him.” Josh scoots forward on the edge of the bed and reaches out to catch George’s wrist before he can tie on his plaid. “Is there something you couldn’t tell Jaymi? ‘Cause I get it, if it—it doesn’t make you weak, if you just did what you needed to do to get through it. I can go with you to—whoever, police, hospital, whatever.”

“ _No_ ,” George snaps. “It really, really wasn’t. It really, really, was something I asked for, on purpose, with words, for reasons. I don’t want to talk about it. We have to rehearse; Micky and Greg and Dan are going to go hard this week ‘cause they were almost out last week and they’re not going to have liked it. Let’s just go sing. And jump off boxes.”

“George—”

“No! God, Josh, shut up.” George whirls around and smacks Josh’s hands away. “Just because you were so blitzed you couldn’t even tell whether you got knotted the first time JJ fucked you doesn’t mean I didn’t know what I was doing last night. I knew. And I wanted it. And it’s my choice, and it’s my choice to just go rehearse! We’re not different from anyone else here. We’re not different from District3 and if they outperform us because we didn’t rehearse enough, we’ll be out the same as anyone else would. And I don’t want to go back to serving coffee and doing nothing. Do you really want to go back to IT sales? Oh, wait, you wouldn’t have to if you just had a bunch of weird horse-obsessed Hamblett babies, would you. Well, I’m not doing that. Just leave me alone. I’ll eat a fucking oatmeal if you really want me to eat a fucking oatmeal.” He pulls a sweatshirt over his head. “Let’s go.”

Josh shoulders past George, and it hurts. He yanks the door open and gestures with mocking etiquette for George to go first. George doesn’t look back into the room after he crosses through. He’s wearing his least-favorite shoes.

The breakfast room is nearly empty, only Ella and Jahmene sitting with Jaymi and JJ, their heads bent together in tight contemplation. George huffs, rolling his eyes, and takes a banana and two pieces of toast with jam onto his tray before heading to the coffee pot. He fills a mug and adds four spoons of sugar, and then he crosses to a table where he can sit alone.

He’s nearly finished meticulously pulling fibrous strings off his banana when Ella sits down across from him.

“Hiya, Georgie. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” George says. He starts to flake burnt crust off his toast. Hates crusts. “How are you?” He gives her a rubbery smile. “You look lovely as always.”

“Thank you. You don’t.”

“Honest,” George says, and he giggles surprisingly genuinely. “I’m tired. Didn’t sleep at all. Good thing I have my trusty coffee. Coffee never lets me down.”

Ella’s face collapses a bit in despair. “Did I let you down, George? By not being there?”

“No,” George gasps, and covers her hands with his, crust forgotten. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. Ella, you didn’t. At all.”

“I would’ve, if you asked,” Ella says softly. “I wouldn’t mind being your Alpha.”

“It’s too late now,” George says, and squeezes her hands. “And besides, you’re only sixteen. I could never have asked you to give up your whole—whatever, for me, when you’re only sixteen.”

“You’re only nineteen,” Ella says petulantly. “That’s just three years more. It’s not that much of a difference.”

“It is for me,” George says honestly. “Because out of those three years, I’m minus six months of time that I can do things, like… for you, three years is three years. But for me, it was two and a half. I don’t know. That was a point in my head but I’m not sure it was a point outside my head, except that things are different for me and for you, in three years, you’ll have done a whole year’s extra things than I have by nineteen. I have to make the most of every other… set of three years, for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah, but even with that extra year, we’re still in the same place now,” Ella points out gently. “So is it really that important?”

George hadn’t thought of it that way.

“Well, it’s too late now,” he repeats. “You can’t be my Alpha. But you can still be my Ella!” He squeezes her hands and gives her a lopsided grin. “We can watch horror films in my room whenever you want. And you can borrow that monkey doll… I guess.”

Ella blinks a few times, trying to clear her eyelashes of wetness. “Are you sure? Is that allowed?”

“I say it is,” George says, nodding. “I’m not giving up an Ella just for an Alpha. That’s stupid.”

They’re quiet for a minute and Ella relinquishes George’s hand so he can eat his banana on toast. Ella goes back to playing with George’s fingers. Eventually, she gets a pen out of her bag and doodles on his skin, silly faces and panda ears and, George notices later in rehearsal, and big star on the fleshy peach of his palm with the words _THIS IS ELLA’S GEORGE_. It’s silly, and it can’t ever be true, but it makes him smile all the same. It doesn’t feel natural on his face to smile today, but it’s nice to know that he still can—and for anyone, not just Harry.

“Are they a good person?” Ella asks finally. “Can you tell me who your Alpha is, please? So I can feel better about not being there?”

George bites his lips together. They taste like coffee and sugar. And banana. “I just—it’s someone good, I think, really. But I just don’t want to talk about it yet. There’s someone else I need to talk to about it first, okay?”

Rehearsals don’t go well. George is itchy and distracted, constantly reaching back to sneak a check that there really isn’t any of Harry’s come leaking out onto his trousers and then twitching, looking up at the slightest hints that someone new has come into or left the rehearsal hall in case it’s Harry or Caroline or both. His smell had been on her blankets; they clearly still saw each other and still slept together. Why would Caroline want to give George her boyfriend? Was that what it was called, an Alpha being with another Alpha, was Harry Caroline’s _boyfriend_? George shudders and wrinkles his nose. He tries to put the hot spike of jealousy the idea hammers through him down to disgust instead, although he knows that isn’t fair, either. There’s nothing wrong with Alphas dating Alphas, objectively, because not everyone wants kids—he fucking doesn’t—and anyway, he’d defended Caroline and Harry respectively over their relationship before he knew either of them. Wanting to keep Harry’s autumn scent all to himself is not a valid reason to go against what he believes.

(Except he isn’t sure when that became something he even wanted—much less something he believes in. HarryandGeorge.)

When they’re sent on lunch break, George takes his things and goes back to his room instead, not really wanting the worried eyes of his bandmates, and everyone else, on him for another hour. His mobile’s missed three calls from Parisa as it is, so he’s just lifting it to ring her back when it buzzes in his hands and he answers it instead.

“Georgie!” Parisa sounds surprised, and harried, and there’s a noise in the background like she’s at a café. “How are you answering? I thought I’d have to leave you a voicemail and check in with Jaymi or Josh; am I in time? Should I get on the next train and come up to give you some company?”

George picks at a spot on the knee of his jeans. What is that, coffee? Coffee, probably. Maybe brown sauce. He should change into a fresh pair before there are photographs. “Erm, no, I’m—all taken care of. It’s fine. You don’t need to come down.”

“Is someone else going to stay with you? What about Saturday, you’ll miss the show? Surely everyone else out there will be busy?”

“I’m not missing the show,” George says gruffly. “It’s—fine, I’m done, it’s over with. Passed quickly.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and George keeps scratching at the stain. He knows he’s probably breathing right in her ear with the phone held against his shoulder like this, but it’s Parisa. She’s had worse from him. Not that she doesn’t deserve better.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” George says. His voice cracks a bit, high and squeaky. Well, she’s used to that, too. She stayed with him all through it the first time around. “Fine. Just on a break between rehearsals. Supposed to be eating dinner, I think.”

“You should.”

“Not hungry,” George says. “Stomach’s a bit off. It’s just nerves, we’re all ill.”

There’s another soft silence and George opens his mouth twice to say _I’ll ring you later; love you_ before Parisa says, “Were you—I mean did you want—you wanted… not to miss the show?”

“Right,” George agrees. “I, yeah, didn’t want to miss the show. I can’t afford it. I can’t let everyone down. What did I really have to go back home to, you know? Costa and rain.”

“Your family,” Parisa hedges. “Me. Your life.”

“I hated my life,” George snaps, and his thumbnail scratches an X into the denim. He can feel his throat working around the words and he doesn’t want them. “I hated my life, before. I like it here. I wanted to keep it, this. You should see how people live here. Even people like—you should see how people act here.”

“Okay.” Parisa sounds quiet, and even the background is muffled. There’s a soft rushing noise that tells George she’s gone outside to talk to him. She might be by the pier, wings and waves shushing past. “You’re still having a good time?”

“Yeah,” George mutters. “Everyone’s really nice, mostly. All I have to do is play my guitar and sing, and—I have to smile a lot, but it’s okay. I actually feel like smiling. Usually. And we go to restaurants and waiters serve _me_ for a change. And Caroline’s great, too, and Jaymi and JJ and Josh. All the J’s, really, because James and Jahmene and Jade are cool, as well. It’s nice, it’s good. And I _love_ Ella, she’s so great.”

“Was it her?” Parisa asks, still quiet and calm like George is a deer to be spooked. “Did Ella, you know. Help you out?”

“No,” George says shortly. “It wasn’t anyone from the show.”

“Oh. Have you talked to your family since?”

“Not in a while, actually,” George says, and he switches his attention over to the other knee. There’s nothing spotting this one, which is good, he supposes, but there’s a loose thread in the seam at the side and he tugs at it until it’s long enough to wind around the tip of his index finger. “I should ring them, shouldn’t I.”

“They miss you like crazy,” Parisa says. “They’re glad you’re there, but they want you home, too.” There’s a sound of traffic around her and once it dies down again, she asks, “Do you think you’ll be able to visit?”

“I’m not planning on _leaving_ ,” George says. “I just want to be here now. I want to make this work as long as I can, but I’m not leaving my family. I’ll be back at Christmas. Or before. I might be back after Sunday after all. Nobody knows. But I gave—gave it everything—everything I possibly could.”

“It’s only a singing competition,” Parisa says softly. “George, you didn’t have to—”

“ _It’s not, and I did_. It’s _not_ just a singing competition, it’s a new start. It’s _mine_. And I’m sorry you’re not here but I’d’ve done it anyway because you can’t help me. You never could, and I was fooling myself, and I just learnt that. I mean, it’s the twentieth of October!” George starts to laugh, falling back against the bed. “It’s the twentieth of October and I’m _fine_.”

“And that’s what you wanted,” Parisa says. 

“And that’s what I wanted,” George answers. “I wanted—I _want_ to win the X Factor. I needed—I need—a way to keep going all the time, like everyone else.”

“George, but it’s everyone else.” Parisa’s voice is fierce in how quiet it is. “Thirty percent of the population are omegas. They have to, to take days and pills and everything, same as you do. Not everyone just goes all day every day, and it’s not healthy if you aren’t… meant to do it.”

“Who says I’m not meant to do this?” George asks, rolling over and punching the mattress as he flops. “I managed it, Parisa, and it’s done. I don’t have to worry about it anymore. I can do whatever I want, and it’s—I can do whatever I want now.”

“Except be with other people,” Parisa says, “Except things your Alpha doesn’t want you to do. Is it really no one on the show with you, because if they are, how d’you know they won’t sabotage you in another month? Or what will you do when you have to tour? Can you really come home at Christmas or are they going to keep you in London forever?”

“I won’t let them,” George says, “Even if he tries. I’ll be home. For visits. I don’t want to live in Clevedon. I never did. It’s better for me here. It’s better for me.”

“You’ve been gone a month and you’re Bonded!” Parisa definitely isn’t quiet now. “You’ve never wanted that. It was the last thing in the world that you ever, ever wanted to happen to you, and you’ve never mentioned hating—your life or the people in it or the way you lived here. I know people were shits in school, but we’re out of school, and—”

“No,” George says, “You’re out of school because you wanted to be; I wanted to be at uni and nowhere could take me because they didn’t have dormitories for unBonded omegas. And I want to be here. We both did. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry it didn’t work for you, but if you were here you’d know, you’d get it. I _have_ to be here. I _have_ to see if I can do this. And I… he understands. I don’t—I don’t really, erm, know him, but he’s been here. He’s just not here now. But he gets it, I’m sure he does. What it means to be here. And you just can’t.”

“What do you mean, he used to be there and he isn’t now? Is it like, one of the Times Red boys?”

“No,” George sighs and rolls over again so he can stare at the ceiling. There’s a water spot. It looks a bit like a cat, or maybe a fruit boat. “Nothing like that. It’s just embarrassing.”

“Is it Simon Cowell?”

George has to laugh at that, closing his eyes to block out the water spot. Whose room is above his? Dermot? Hopefully Dermot and his bathtub don’t fall right through the ceiling; there shouldn’t be a water spot in a hotel like this. “No, it’s not Simon Cowell. Jesus. No, it’s—it’s Harry Styles, alright?”

Silence.

Silence for so long that George finally asks, “Parisa? Are you still there?”

“You’re Bonded to Harry Styles?” she asks, her voice flat. “Like One Direction Harry Styles?”

“Erm, yeah, that’s the only one I know. Not a common name, is it?”

“No, that’s just—that’d be like if I rang you up and said I’d started dating Demi Lovato.”

“Nice,” George says. “I’d be happy for you. She’s hot.”

“That’s not the point,” Parisa sighs. “George, it sounds… like you’re making it up. Are you making it up because you don’t want to tell me? Or—you do _know_ who it was, right?”

“Yes, it was Harry Styles!” George exclaims. “I think I’m meant to be insulted that you don’t think Harry Styles would want to Bond to me. And anyway, I’m friends with Caroline, so it’s not like it’s unrealistic. I don’t want to talk about it. Just, he understands the X Factor, okay, and he’ll help me through it. That’s all. That’s all I needed him for.”

“But what about after?” Parisa is quiet again. “George, what about the rest of your life? He’s busy literally every day, and not just in London—not even just in England! He goes around the world, are you going to have to go around the world? And I read an interview just now, I’ve Googled him, he wants kids, George. What are you going to do?”

George swallows and covers his eyes with his forearm. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He hasn’t thought about it.

“Don’t other people on your show think it’s like, cheating, if you’re backed by Harry Styles now?”

“They don’t know,” George mutters. “I haven’t told anyone yet. Except Caroline, of course, she set it up. But I thought you should know first.”

“Thanks,” Parisa whispers. “I guess we’re over then, aren’t we.”

“I thought you’d be glad of it,” George says. “I always ended up hurting you or something.”

“You just wore me out,” Parisa dismisses. “I understood. I always sort of thought you’d never Bond and we’d end up together. Just like, comfort or something.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t,” George says softly, and it feels like his whole day has been apologizing to people for not being able to be with them. It isn’t his fault how he was made. “I’d’ve picked you. You know that, right?”

“You still could have,” Parisa says. “You could have missed one show and finished the competition as yourself and come home to me.”

George swallows, tears prickling up in his eyes. “I’m really busy, P. I have to go.”

“Yeah. You should. I’ll—I’ll ring you in a few days,” Parisa says. “I’ll vote for you Saturday. And tell your family you love them.”

“Thanks,” George whispers. “I’ll call them soon. I just… need a little time. For myself.”

“I understand. I love you, Georgie. We really miss you around here.”

“I love you, too,” George says. He sniffs, and his eyes are wet. “I’m just… it seemed right, at the time. I have to make it work now.”

“I get it, George, I do, it’s just going to take a while to digest that the boy who protests for omegas’ rights just got Bonded without warning. But if it was right for you, you know I love you and I’m behind you. I’ll talk to you later. Get some sleep. You sound tired.”

She hangs up, and George lets his mobile fall onto the mattress next to him. He sighs and covers his eyes with his forearms again, sinking back into the pillows and trying to fall asleep.

It doesn’t come.

At the end of the hour, Jaymi comes back into their room and sits on the edge of George’s bed, not talking, but holding a hand on George’s thigh as though he can keep anything from happening to him if he just stays near George all day. After a while, though, George shakes him off and trudges into the bathroom for another shower and to change into clean pyjamas.

He’s just settled into bed watching _The Big Bang Theory_ on his laptop and futzing with a design he’s made for their shared Twitter background when there’s a knock at the hotel room door.

“I’ll get it,” Jaymi says quickly, jumping out of bed. “It’s probably just Rylan looking for help with eyebrow threading or something.”

George gives Jaymi a smile. He doesn’t _need_ the mollycoddling—but that doesn’t mean it’s unpleasant. _“It's not a present. It's the present. There's you and me. It's Penny and Amy. We're playing Pictionary. In the present.”_

“George.” Jaymi’s voice is carefully controlled casual. “Your – Harry Styles is here.”

George jerks on the bed, sitting up in his sock-feet and too-big t-shirt, and pushes his hands through his hair desperately. What is Harry doing there? Now? His Heat’s over and George doesn’t – they’re Bonded, and he wants to please Harry, wants it down to his marrows, but he doesn’t. He’s _just_ sat down and it’s his only break of the weekend and he doesn’t, he just doesn’t want to… _please_ Harry right now.

All the same, the electricity of a new Bond sings through his bones and teeth and blood like fireworks, all of his cells chanting _harry!harry!harry!_ even though George wishes they’d just shut up. But his feet are pulling him towards the door and there’s Harry, tall and broad and curled in on himself like he isn’t an Alpha, like he can’t take all the space he wants. 

“Hi.”

“Hi,” George says back. 

Jaymi nudges his shoulder, and George shuffles aside to let Jaymi through the door as he pulls on his shoes. “I’ll see you kids later. George?” He touches George’s elbow. “Ring me if you need me, okay?”

George nods, giving Jaymi a grateful little smile. Harry frowns.

Once Jaymi’s gone, George leaves the door open, still standing in the jamb. “So… what’d’you want?”

“You left,” Harry says, like that explains everything. His toes are pointed together in his skinny canvas shoes. “Last night, after we – well, basically, you left. Why did you leave?”

“Because I had rehearsals this morning,” George says. “I wanted to sleep. And I wanted to nap now, too, if you don’t mind.”

Harry’s arm is so close that George can feel the heat radiating from his sun-gold skin, and every spidersilk-tiny hair on George’s own arm is stretching toward the warmth of Harry, reaching out to touch. George can see the gooseflesh on his skin and a flash of brilliant annoyance strikes through him. He shakes out his shoulders and rubs his arm and scowls. 

“I don’t mind,” Harry says, eyes wide. “I couldn’t sleep last night.” His voice turns soft and tentative. “Missed you.”

“You don’t know me.” But Harry’s through the door, and George is shutting it behind him. “You didn’t miss _me_ , you missed your omega.”

“But you’re both,” Harry points out. “You’re you, and you’re my omega.”

They stare at each other, and George is struck by how much they seem to be on the same plane: the same height, the same carriage, the way Harry’s chin tucks in as much as George juts his own out. But it’s exhausting, defying someone who doesn’t mind defiance. And George is, genuinely, exhausted. At least for the evening.

The scent of Harry seems to play tricks on him. Makes him think of being wrapped up in a warm blanket by a bonfire, mid-October, before he was old enough to understand why to be afraid of the flames so he just watched them dance. The urgency of it is missing now, though, just like Jaymi’s last night and Ella’s at lunch – George feels like his senses have all been dulled, and the fact that he misses it verges on anger. He shouldn’t miss being—vulnerable. Being needy. But it was a part of him, and it’s gone now.

“Yeah,” George says finally, and lets his shoulders sag. “I am your omega. What do you want?”

“I just wanted to see you,” Harry says. “The only way I’ll get to know you is to get to know you, you know.”

“That was a lot of ‘knows,’” George says. “And a lot of ‘yous.’”

“Yeah.” Harry doesn’t look bothered. George isn’t sure whether he intended for Harry to be bothered or not. “That’s what the point of the sentence was. I want to know you.”

George’s lips twitch. Harry’s smarter than he thought, but he should have figured given that he’d dated Caroline. “I don’t know that I’m feeling up to a game of Never-Have-I-Ever. I just wanted to take a nap. I didn’t get much sleep last night, either.”

“That’s fine,” Harry says. “I—could I nap with you?”

George swallows and steps back towards the wall, just one step. “I don’t you to have sex with me right now.”

“I know?” Harry’s eyebrows bunch down. “I said I could _nap_ with you. Just sleeping. I’m not going to ask you to have sex with me. You look exhausted. It wouldn’t be any fun.”

_Fun_. George’s stomach sinks, and he looks at his toes where they peek out from beneath the hems of his sweatpants. “I’m going to sleep. You can sleep if you want or you can leave. But my roommate’s an Alpha, too, so if—just so you know.”

“I know,” Harry assures him, his voice quiet. He toes out of his shoes and slides his belt out of its loops, but he doesn’t take his jeans off. George keeps watching Harry as he pads backwards towards the bed. He shuts his laptop and sets it on the nightstand, then curls up under his sheet. The bed smells good today, cleaner. Jaymi must have called in housekeeping while George was at breakfast. He’s grateful not to be so surrounded by his own scent for a change. It means Harry won’t be, either.

His bones stop rattling when Harry wraps himself around George’s curled form, and George hates the small, relieved sigh that comes out of his chest. 

Harry keeps his limbs loose, though, like he’s afraid George will push him away – like he’s afraid that George will yell, “Gotcha!” and dump him right out of the bed. “This alright?”

“Yeah,” George mutters. “It’s alright.” 

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	4. Chapter 4

** Genesis **

>   
> _**An omega’s Guide to Happiness**_
> 
> * Have your Alpha’s dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for their return. This is a way of letting them know that you have be thinking about them and are concerned chiefly about their needs. If you will be mated following dinner, eat cheaply and cleanly before your Alpha arrives home, and try to avoid unsavory smelling foods that may interrupt their hormones.
>   
> 
> * Prepare your looks every day. Be fresh-looking. Even when you are with child, your Alpha should be able to wear you proudly on their arm at social functions. Life isn’t a competition, but always strive to give your Alpha the satisfaction of feeling as though they have the prettiest omega in the room!
>   
> 
> * Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dust cloth over the tables. During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for them to unwind by. Keep their favorite places and spaces ready at a moment’s notice for their their need to be serviced. After all, catering to their comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction. 
>   
> 
> * Be happy to see them. There are twice as many omegas in the world as there are Alphas, and you were lucky to be chosen. Show sincerity in your desire to please them. 
>   
> 
> * Though you may be tired or uncomfortable, especially when with child, but remember that Alpha biology is different from your own and they may require intimate forms of exercise at any time. Keep yourself neat and well-groomed for any occasion, and be willing to work outside of your comfort level. Your Alpha takes care of you just by being there; it’s up to you to do the rest.
>   
> 
> * Don't greet them with complaints and problems. Count your misfortunes as minor compared to what they might have gone through making tough decisions. Your omega troubles extend only as far as the walls of your home, but an Alpha’s woes affect us all.
>   
> 
> * Make them comfortable. Have them lean back in a comfortable chair or lie them down in the bedroom. There is a two-page spread of leg-strengthening exercises just for omegas on p.57 if you find your delicate frame easily fatigued. 
>   
> 
> * Arrange their pillow and offer to take off their shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice. 
>   
> 
> * Don't ask them questions about their actions or question their judgment or integrity. Remember, they are your Master or Mistress, and as such will always exercise their will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question them. 
>   
> 
> * A good omega always knows their place. 
>   
> —Housekeeping Monthly, 24 May 1962̊

***

The room is still bright when George wakes, but all the shadows cast the wrong directions through the pale curtains. Dust swims through the air in acrobatic silence, and George watches it tumble through a slice of light as he absently wonders how it is that he’s so much warmer than usual, and whether the bed’s got more comfy.

There’s a soft sigh. A puff of warmth over the top of George’s head. 

_Harry_. Harry’s still here. In George’s bed. George’s rolled over in the night—it must be morning; where did Jaymi sleep? Did Jaymi just leave him here with Harry?—and their legs are tangled, knobbly knees pressing bruises together and ankles crossed like bones. Harry is so, so warm, and George must have tucked a hand up beneath the black t-shirt Harry had been wearing, because George can feel smooth skin as he snatches his hand back to cradle against his own chest.

The movement makes Harry’s breath puff again, lips pursed and released like he’s whispering words. His arms aren’t tight around George, but George can feel them like they’re the Bond keeping them close. 

Pressed up against George’s front, Harry is hard. 

George holds his breath, waiting, feeling the tiny shifts of Harry’s deep, sleepy breathing and smelling the condensed, heady scent of him on the blankets and pillows and George’s own skin. And, with a twitch, the faint but insistent press of Harry’s cock against George’s belly.

George presses his lips together and stares past Harry’s flop of fringe, looking at the white of the ceiling. The waterspot is still there. Staring back. Very rude. 

It’s hard to breathe, even though George knows he has to, because he doesn’t want to wake Harry. Harry’s going to want—he’s going to want to try breed him again, and George, it’s morning, it must be morning, there are things to do, places he needs to be. And he’s trying, despite the growing panic in the pit of his stomach, to ignore that he—might be hard, too, he’s scenting and sticky and everything feels fuzzy and hot. It isn’t Heat. George knows that; firstly, it can’t be, doesn’t work that way, and it’s a relief, but secondly because it isn’t as strong as that. It’s more of a press than a crush. 

Harry sighs again, burbling in his sleep, and with a gentle groan under his breath he cuddles up closer to George, the thick length of him nudging against George’s navel. 

They brush up against each other, and Harry makes another little sound in his sleep, a satisfied, searching noise that makes George catch his breath in his chest as everything turns upside-down, George’s chest tight and loose at once like a candle melting, a hot ball of wax inside running through and coating him from the inside-out in a slow, slow burn that George can tell, if left unchecked, will blaze up from warmth to Heat. Harry moves again, sound asleep and shifting towards the feeling only through dreaming, and George gasps as the head of his little cock brushes over the heavy ridge at the base of Harry’s where his knot puffs up as he comes. Where his knot had tied him to George.

It hadn’t felt like this. That was Heat, and George understood it. He doesn’t understand this, this... warmth. Glow.

George bites off a bit of skin at the inside of his cheek and his mouth tastes like pennies. He waits for Harry to settle again, heavy in his sleep, and then carefully wriggles his way out from under Harry’s arm. The sounds of his feet touching down on the carpeted floor seem thunderous, and George bounces onto his tiptoes like that could keep Harry from waking. 

As soon as he’s sure Harry is still sound asleep, wearing his jeans and t-shirt and even his belt, face tucked against the pillows, George skitters off to the bathroom and locks the door behind him. He skins out of his t-shirt and pyjama trousers and doesn’t look in the mirror. Even with the clothing in a pile on the floor, George can smell Harry, like their own scents mingled together in George’s very pores. 

And there’s the other thing.

It’s not like George doesn’t know that Alphas get hard a lot—what’s the stereotype; every six seconds?—and he knows, from comment-threads and messageboards and some very careful Googling, that some omegas do, too, and that it’s not supposed to be something shameful and it’s supposedly even normal. (But if it’s normal, George always thinks, then why would everyone insist so stringently that it isn’t shameful? The nuns back in secondary had certainly thought it was shameful the first time George started going into Heat during Geography lessons and he’d scented right through his school trousers and been—been poking up at the front like he is right now. His wrists had been broken a few months later. It’s hard to forget that.)

So the other thing is that even if some omegas do, _George doesn’t_. He hardens up when he goes into Heat because that’s just how bodies work, but this is not normal. This isn’t _George_. And it’s uncomfortable, prickling something like featherbrushes in the base of his belly, warm and the edge of achy like pressing on an old bruise or waiting to sneeze. It isn’t _unpleasant_ , but he doesn’t want to keep it. It’s a feeling George wants to shake off his skin like water. 

George keeps his hand under the stream of the shower until it’s so hot his fingers start to glow red. He steps in to scrub at his skin with a flannel and Jaymi’s heavily-perfumed soap until he smells mostly like patchouli and very little like himself or anyone else. Maybe Jaymi, he supposes, but mostly soap. It’s not that he minds Harry’s scent, or really anything about Harry—he’s been nice, all things considered—but if having that smell in his skin is going to make him, make it obvious that he’s an omega and his body needs things, then he needs the smell off. ( _It isn’t safe_ , chorus all of the voices that built the little nag in the back of his mind. _You can’t walk around smelling like that, George, you’ll give people the wrong idea._ He doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about him, what with the Corinthia surrounded by paparazzi… but mostly, he doesn’t want to let Harry get the wrong idea about him. George likes that Harry’s been nice. He’d like to keep it that way, and he’ll help that along however he can.)

After scrubbing down almost every inch of himself under the screaming-hot water,still, still, his stupid little omega prick is peeking up like an annoying, curious pet nosing at his belly. George grumbles under his breath, closes his eyes, and turns the shower spigot to _fuck off freezing cold_.

Well.

If that shriek—yelp, really, a manly yelp—didn’t wake Harry, George figures, sneaking back into his room with a towel around his waist and a towel around his wet hair, then nothing will. He steals a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and sweatshirt from his closet and hops back to the bathroom to put them on before taking his shoes in hand, padding out of the room, and heading for the lift. Harry is still sound asleep in George’s bed, face slack and, George grudgingly admits, pretty. Half of his face is buried in George’s pillow, and he’d tucked his toes under George’s comforter at the foot of the bed.

George smiles. Then he bites the sore spot at the inside of his cheek, and he stops.

Alone in the lift, George pulls on his shoes. Then he shakes two small pink tablets into his palm and downs them, just in case, because apparently having a new Bond means his body is going crazy even though he isn’t really in Heat. They’ll at least keep his pants from getting sticky. 

By the time the lift stops on the right floor for the Northall Private Dining Room, which the ITV producers have permanently rented for the contestants during their stay, George feels the spiky urchin in his stomach tame its claws a bit. The tension in his shoulders has loosened, too, and he smiles for real when the lift doors open and Ella spots him across the dining hall.

“Georgie!” She bounces in her chair, clapping. There’s half a grapefruit on her plate, and Josh catches the spoon as it topples. “I didn’t think you’d make it before we left! Come sit with me.”

George giggles and scoots past the breakfast table as quickly as he can, grabbing a perfunctory pair of toast slices and a small bunch of red grapes. Coffee takes a little more time, because if George is particular about anything, it’s coffee. 

“Hey, you,” he says finally to Ella, sliding into her booth. “How are you this morning?”

“I’m well, thanks,” Ella says, and kisses his cheek. “How are you? Jaymi said you seemed dead asleep when he came down.”

“Where is Jaymi?” George asks. “I haven’t seen him all night.”

“He’s off talking to Olly,” Josh says from across the table. He snatches one of George’s grapes. “Seeing you the other night reminded him he needs to find out when it is he has to go back to Luton for the night.”

“He doesn’t know?” George asks. “They’ve been together ages, haven’t they?”

“Yeah, but that means Jaymi hasn’t had to pay attention on a calendar,” Josh says. “He’s just there, you know?”

George frowns down at the slice of toast he’s buttering. That doesn’t sound right at all. But he’s had his Bond all of forty hours; he can’t pretend to be an expert. He adds a bit more butter to his toast and then reaches across Ella for the Marmite.

“Are we going to meet Olly?” Ella asks. She takes her spoon back from Josh and digs it into the grapefruit pith. “It’s not fair to him Jaymi couldn’t bring him along. Charlie had Louise with her.”

There’s a moment of sad, commiserating silence for MK1’s departure a few days before.

“Well, we’ve all met Olly,” JJ starts.

But George looks up and says around a mouthful of toast, “I haven’t. We got rushed to Las Vegas and then between there and here, I had to go home. I haven’t met Olly yet, and you all haven’t met my family or anything.”

“We haven’t met your Bond, either,” Josh points out, one eyebrow raised. “That’d be easier, wouldn’t it? They must live in London. Who is it?”

George shreds off some of his crust. Hates crust. “Doesn’t matter. Leave it.”

“It isn’t Caroline,” Ella reports, leaning forward like that will keep George from hearing her little conspiratorial secrets with Josh and JJ. “I asked her yesterday. And she spent the night with me and Lucy the other night; look, she did my nails—bows!” She holds out her fingers and her boys all _ooh_ appropriately. “So it really can’t be her. Her alibi is too strong.”

“It’s not Caroline,” George grumbles. “It’s nobody you know.”

“It isn’t Rylan, is it?” JJ asks, his brow wrinkled with concern.

“You know Rylan!” George giggles. “I literally just said it’s nobody you know!”

“Does anyone _really_ know Rylan?” Josh asks.

“I do,” Ella reports. “He came over and got manis, too. He didn’t get bows, though. Just glitter.”

Josh rolls his eyes under his inscrutable eyebrows, but JJ laughs and pinches Josh’s side lightly between two knuckles.

“She told you, babe.”

“That doesn’t mean she knows him,” Josh grumps. “It just means she knows his nailbeds. Anyone can do that.”

Ella sticks out her tongue at the pair of them, and George giggles next to her. He tears a little more crust off his toast and sticks the rest of the slice in his mouth all at once.

And then almost chokes as Jaymi calls across the room, “Georgie! Look who I found wandering our corridor, confused because you left him alone in your bed. Again.”

There’s a suspended moment. Even Ella’s spoon doesn’t clatter against her plate.

Then George coughs, hacking a gag around the ball of bread and butter and Marmite in his throat, and Ella whumps him on the back and JJ and Josh both half-stand to see over the back of the booth to where Jaymi and Harry are walking side-by-side up to the table. George’s eyes are watering and everything tastes like Marmite, but he feels a pang in his chest unrelated to the butter in his lungs when he sees Harry. His clothes are all rumpled from wearing them two days in a row, and his hair is a mess—there’s a crease mark on his cheek just where George always gets one from the seam on the hotel pillowcase—but his long fingers are tangled together. That, combined with the inward points of his toes, makes him look almost… nervous, to see George awake.

With a tiny shift that George can feel just under his ribs, though, it’s like he’s turned off being Harry and turned on being Harry Styles. His posture barely changes, and there’s no sudden light behind his eyes, none of the old attages, but he stops looking nervous and starts looking foppish, holding his own in a room of eyes that are on George’s side and judging him. It’s reminding Ella and Josh and JJ that he is the one who’s conquered the X Factor already. It’s telling Jaymi to stop coddling him and George both.

It’s an Alpha quality that George hasn’t seen in anyone since Tulisa at his audition.

Harry slides over a loose chair and sits down in the empty space next to George. On his other side, Ella pinches George’s thigh. _Hard_.

At least he’s stopped choking.

Harry gives George a smile, bright even around sleepy, questioning eyes. “Grapes.”

George’s cheek tics where he bit it this morning. “Yeah. Erm, did you—do you want me to fix you a plate?” He asks, stilted. He should know what Harry likes. There are probably a trillion people who have it scrawled in their diaries, _Harry Styles likes Branston Pickle and breakfast sandwiches!_. It’s strange, to think that George will be fixing Harry plates for the rest of their lives and he doesn’t even know yet what Harry would want. He keeps a tense, watchful study of Harry’s eyes to see if their expression changes again at George’s ignorance.

It doesn’t. If anything, Harry looks a little sleepier and more confused. “No, that’s alright, I can make my own.” His cheek dimples. “I prefer bananas to grapes, I think. Unless they’re cold.”

George’s nose wrinkles as Harry stands and trundles off to the breakfast line. Cold grapes. What a diva. 

As soon as Harry is gone, Ella pinches him again. “ _You Bonded to Harry Styles_?”

“Is this boy band sabotage?” JJ asks.

“Don’t be a cabbage, Jayj,” Josh mutters. “Of _course_ it’s boy band sabotage. Should’ve gone with Max George.”

“Shut up.” George clears his throat. “I—it’s not like I can take it back. Caroline thought it’d be a good idea.” He doesn’t like the idea of Bonding to anyone else. He doesn’t know that he likes the idea, yet, of having Bonded to Harry, but the idea of Bonding to Max George feels like falling in a nest of bees.

“Have you flipped your hair for him?” Josh continues. “Was he just so overwhelmed that he had to knot you? Or was it the other way around and he did the hair-flipping?”

“Josh, shut the fuck up,” Jaymi says from the side of the table where he’s just appeared with a plate of muffins and a mug of tea. He stares pointedly at the J’s until they both sigh and scoot over until there’s enough room for Jaymi to sit across from George. “George was really emotional the other night. But then last night they were soppily cute cuddling, so I’m accepting him.”

Ella’s head nudges onto George’s shoulder and she picks up his hand where it’s laying on the table. She starts playing with his fingers again, squeezing the callused tips so they turn pink and white. “George? D’you even know Harry?”

“Not really,” George admits. “But Caroline said… she said something; I can’t quite remember clearly, but she said that we’d get on. And it’s not like I have to worry about spending a lot of time with him, do I? He’s in One Direction, like Josh seems fixated on. He’s busy.”

“I dunno,” JJ says, and George looks over his shoulder to where JJ’s staring. Harry is standing with a pensive, bow-mouthed look on his face near the toaster, one hip rested against the table, considering George across the room. “If he was that busy, I dunno he could give up two days in a row to spend time here.”

George swallows. His mouth still tastes like Marmite. 

It’s a fair point. 

Harry catches George looking back at him, and he gives George a tentative smile. George goes pink and quickly turns back to the table. 

“I didn’t know Olly,” Jaymi points out around a bite of muffin. “And he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And Josh and JJ had to ask each other’s names next morning. I don’t think you have to really know someone to Bond with them really well. Otherwise, me and Josh would be together.”

George glances at Josh, who is looking down at the mismatch of his thumbs. George hasn’t asked who Bonded first, Jaymi and Olly or Josh and JJ. He thinks he might know, all the same.

But instead, George just smiles reassuringly at Ella. “That’s true. And he’s not a weirdo off the street; Caroline vouched for him.”

“It’s just not very romantic, is it?” Ella asks. Her chin is sharp against George’s shoulder socket where she’s giving him a nuzzle. “I think I want to _woo_ my omega, someday.”

“I hope you do,” George says. “Woo.”

“What’s ‘woo’?” JJ asks. “Isn’t that what SIMS do to mate?”

“No, that’s ‘woohoo,’” Harry corrects, sitting down next to George again. George takes careful note of what Harry has on his plate just in case he needs to start preparing them after this: tea, no milk—odd; a banana; an apple; a toasted bagel, dry. And two links of sausage flanking either side of his plate like carefully arranged goalposts. “Wooing is like, courting.”

“What?”

“Dating, babe,” Josh says. “Which, you haven’t taken me out in ages.”

“We’ve been a bit occupied!” JJ huffs. “And I’m taking you out to that thing next week.”

“Rylan’s birthday?” Josh asks flatly, “That we’re _all_ going to?”

“Yeah,” JJ says. “That.”

Everyone who is neither JJ nor Josh snorts down at their plate and busies themselves with some form of carbohydrate. Harry’s elbow bumps up against George’s forearm, and all of George’s tendons swoon. Harry looks over to George and his eyes soften. In the light, and without the Heat, his eyes are wide, dappled green, the same color as the sea washing up against the pier between bouts of rain and splashes of sun. They’re quite nice eyes, George thinks; amazing how different they look when they aren’t black with pheromones.

“You alright?” Harry asks George. His pinkie taps lightly on George’s wrist, and George startles.

“Yeah,” he chirps. George busies himself with his coffee cup. “You alright?”

“I am,” Harry says. “I slept better than in ages. I haven’t had a lie-in like that since I was on the show. They’re going easy on you lot.”

That makes George frown, because either it’s true and Union J are being treated differently than the other contestants on account of him and Josh, or it’s false and Harry is taking the mickey in front of everyone. 

“Well, you were a baby when you were on the show,” Jaymi says, a little over-bright. George looks over at him across the table and Jaymi just barrels on. “Weren’t you? Probably had to be up at dawn for feedings and change your nappies and that. The only one we have to wake up to burp is Ella, and she’s usually already watching Teletubbies when her child-minder gets there, aren’t you, Ickle Ella?”

“I’m more of a Pingu man myself,” Harry says. “Look.” He raises his arm and shows the tattoo in his armpit. “It’s official.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Josh snorts. “You can get any tattoo you like and you get _Pingu_? That’s like JJ’s one on his hip being misspelt. Waste of a good tattoo.”

(George can’t help but agree. When he was fifteen, he’d had a secret, locked entry in his old blog where he’d kept meticulous track of the tattoos he would get if he were an Alpha, and he’d spent many an hour refining their designs in CS2. If he could get tattoos, he wouldn’t use up the skin of his arms on things like the _Pingu logo_ or the ‘Hi’ he’d seen inside Harry’s bicep when he’d shrugged out of his shirt the other night. George is a designer at heart, as much as he is a musician, and he would use every inch of canvas to say something if people were willing to listen.)

Harry’s expression doesn’t shift, but George feels a tiny drop in his chest that he knows comes from somewhere other than his own feelings. “I got it with Ed. Sheeran, I mean. I mean, it looks silly but. I don’t think everything has to be a big gesture to be meaningful. Although those are nice, too. Basically.”

“That’s true,” Jaymi agrees, “My tattoo for Olly is the smallest I have but it’s still the best one.” Then his brow furrows and he leans around Josh to ask JJ, “Your tattoo is _misspelt_?”

JJ just shrugs and swallows a last bite of bacon. “Fuck if I know, really.”

“It is,” Josh says drolly. “Trust me. I’m the one always down there looking at it.”

Ella squawks, scandalized, and Jaymi throws a bit of balled-up napkin at the side of Josh’s quiff. It sticks there like a burr. But across the table, Harry’s knee’s nudges up alongside George’s.

George coughs, his elbows hitting the table with a bang as he bucks up trying to get away without pushing either Ella or Harry over. “Don’t we need to be getting to rehearsals?” He pauses. “I don’t know that I’ve quite got the hang of jumping off boxes yet.”

“It’s not that hard,” Jaymi says. “It’s box and you’re on it and then we all jump off.”

“I bet it’s harder than it looks,” Ella says consolingly, rubbing her fingers through George’s hair to fluff it. “I don’t know that I could do it. Especially not in these ridiculous heels they’re making me wear. What was wrong with my kicks? And stop laughing whenever I say ‘kicks’!”

She lets George out of the booth as the three J’s disentangle themselves and stand. Josh is still fussing with his quiff after the napkin ball, and JJ gets on tiptoe to pick gently through Josh’s hair before kissing his chin lightly and assuring him that it _looks fine. Really, it looks fine, babe._

Harry slides out of the booth behind George and keeps to his own space. “Can I see you tonight?”

“Why?” George asks reflexively. He tucks his hands into the ends of his sleeves. “I mean, we are busy. Dress rehearsal’s tomorrow. Just, like, is there something important you need me for?”

“No,” Harry says. “I just wanted to see you. I thought I could take you for dinner and—I dunno, maybe around to mine for a film or something.”

“I don’t have time for that,” George says, and it feels better in his bones to know that he really isn’t lying. He doesn’t have time for lazing about, and he isn’t going to let Josh’s flippant ‘boy band sabotage’ become true on his account. “Booked solid for the next few days, I’m afraid.” He can feel Josh’s eyes on him—all of their eyes, really, but he can tell that Josh is giving him that _look_ again that he doesn’t quite understand. It makes him itch, like Josh thinks he’s a squidgy thing on a dissection tray.

When he glances up at Harry instead of his shoes, though, it’s even worse. Because the thing is, George would really, really like not to care about how Harry feels, because he’s _sure_ \--100% positive—that soon enough, maybe tonight, maybe in another month, maybe in ten years when he realizes that George is deadly serious about not wanting to bear children, Harry is going to stop pretending to care how George feels. He’s going to want to fuck, or to mate, or to have George fix his breakfast plates differently, and it won’t really matter what George wants to do. That is what George has always known about being an omega. But what he didn’t know was that he would end up with Harry Styles, whose sad eyes are the size of Jupiter, only sadder, and who really is frustratingly pretty and unassuming and tall and who remembered that George prefers grapes even though that was literally the stupidest thing George has ever said to another human being _and_ he said it before they were even Bonded, so there’s no logical reason Harry shouldn’t have blocked it out just to preserve IQ points.

Making Harry Styles get that look on his face feels the same way that George felt after that time he accidentally trod on his old hamster, Oliver. (He’d been fine, just squeaked a lot and bitten George’s foot.) 

Harry looks away, up at the ceiling, and nods. Unlike George, he does have an Earth’s apple, and it bobs as he swallows. There’s a freckle just beneath it, too, and another at the side of his jaw, both places right where his fingers had ghosted over George’s neck while they were knotted together. George swallows, too, because he can still feel Harry’s hand on him even though now, Harry’s keeping his hands to himself, tucked into his pockets. 

“Okay,” Harry says quietly. “Can I at least have your number?”

“Oh,” George says. “Yeah, that would—sure, of course. Need to be able to reach each other next month.”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Right. Next month, yeah. But I was thinking more like ‘maybe Monday we could drinks,’ or like, ‘if you have a spare minute on Tuesday we could play Twenty Questions via text’ or something. I mean, I assume you like stuff besides grapes.”

“Er, yeah,” George says. “I don’t even like grapes that much. Just, you know, more than… not.”

Harry grins at that. “Okay. Now I know two things. Note to self: cancel grape bouquet.” He chuckles under his breath, and, hands still in his pockets, he leans in towards George. He’s still smiling lightly, and he isn’t _pouncing_ or grabbing for George, but his breath is warm when it puffs against George’s mouth and and his scent is closing in like a cocoon, almond and autumn and bonfire wood and it reminds George of the Heat, of the tug keeping George tethered to Harry’s body and lying in the dark with Harry touching George’s mouth with come-covered fingers, and when George woke up this morning, Harry was hard up against his hip.

George squeaks and rears back two steps. 

“Ow, George, that’s my foot!” Josh yelps as George bumps into him. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing!” George says, shaking his head. “Just, let’s go, the vans are probably here, right? And James and Jahmene and everyone left already.”

“Yeah, we’re on our way, calm down,” Josh says. “It’s not even Dress yet, ‘s’not like we’re missing the show. Chill the fuck out, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack. Or go bald, and we need your hair to win.” He looks from George over to Harry. “If he goes bald from stress, we’re shaving your head and gluing it to George.”

Harry just pastes on a smile. “Sounds good to me, if it comes to it. My head gets too hot anyway.” 

George ducks his head with a nervous giggle. 

“Sorry, anyway, that was my fault.” Harry ticks his cheek and shrugs his shoulders, digging his toe into the carpeting. “Sorry, George.”

“It’s okay,” George mutters. “I’ll—see you when I see you.”

“Right,” Harry says, and George makes it a few steps out of the room towards the lift before Harry calls, “Wait! Your number?”

“Oh,” George says, “Right.” He lets Harry catch up to him, then programs it into Harry’s mobile. “There, now you can reach me. I’m busy a lot, though, and I’m sleeping, else.”

“Okay.” Harry rests his hand over the bend of George’s elbow, light, steadying, blazing warmth that pulls into George’s center of gravity. “Thanks, George. I know you’re, it’s, it’s different for me than I thought it’d be, too. Basically.”

 _He expected George to do more for him._ “Right.”

“I mean, I just thought it’d feel—I thought you would be, like, when I was a kid, I had these old neighbors who had been Bonded for their whole lives basically and I used to play in their garden because they had all these cats and stuff and they’d watch me and I’d see them sitting out with their tea, and once, Herbert varnished Flo’s fingernails red for her because her arthritis made them sore. I thought it’d be like that.”

George blinks. “Er. Right.”

“Not that I think you need fingernail varnish,” Harry adds quickly. “Your fingernails are fine how they are.”

“Okay,” George agrees. “I’ll, erm, I won’t varnish them then, and I’ll… I have to go. I’ll see you when I see you. And erm, if you like, left anything in my room, I can give it to Caroline.”

He jogs over to where Ella is holding open the lift doors, and he kisses her cheek in thanks after stepping inside. When he turns around, Harry looks a little stricken. He raises his hand to wave to George, though, as the lift doors close, but George doesn’t have time to lift a hand and wave back.

As soon as they’re well and truly away from Harry, Ella punches George in the side. “I can’t believe you’re Bonded to _Harry Styles_! Last year, he was named one of the most eligible Alphas and he’s worth, like, millions and millions of pounds. You’ll be taken care of for the rest of your life! You don’t even need to win anymore, you could just have him ask Simon to sign you all!”

“I don’t want to depend Harry for money,” George says. “And I’m not going to let anyone say we made it down to anyone but ourselves. Union J are Union _J_ , not Union J Plus H.”

“You aren’t a J,” JJ points out very helpfully. “You’re a G. Or did you go back to J-George?”

“No, that turned out to be said like ‘hor-hay’ and that’s even less J-ish than George,” George says, and Ella gives him a little headcuddle for the melancholy of it all. “But I’m serious, I don’t want—I don’t want anyone to think we get wherever we get because of Harry, so I’d like to just keep it quiet as long as we can, alright? Please?”

“Don’t you think people will notice?” Jaymi asks. “He’s only one of the biggest stars on the planet. The only way you could have Bonded to someone more noticeable would be if you’d got picked up by Beyoncé, and let’s be real here, Georgie, she is out of your league.”

“Thanks for that,” George says dryly. “Why would anyone notice? Unless they smelt me and then smelt him, it’s not like they’d know anything other than that either of us had Bonded with _someone_. And, it’s not like people vote by smelling me. I don’t look different. Do I?”

“Tired. But no, fluffy and dopey as usual,” Josh assures him. 

George sticks out his tongue, and then the lift doors open and they’re all chivvied off for a nonstop day of singing and jumping and having their eyebrows threaded and tans sprayed on and outfits fitted over and over. Louis Walsh isn’t happy with how George looks anywhere on the stage, too tall in the front and too unnoticeable in the back; Evie changes the key of the song at the last moment because George’s voice is sticking out the harmony too much. The lights are hot, and George’s feet are tired, and he’s pretty sure they’ve taken out too much from his left eyebrow, although he wouldn’t say so because they have instruments for inflicting pain in the styling room.

In wardrobe, Grace looks up at George with a mouthful of pins as she darts his leatherette trousers for the show. “You look different today. Are you growing?”

It’s frightening, thinking that someone George scarcely knows could see it right on his face, or in the slope of his bones, that George _is_ different now. Maybe he looks genuinely like Harry now, in some way. Broader in the shoulders or taller or maybe, hopefully, if there’s anything, George has taken a bit of that spark that makes Harry light up so people can’t help but notice him and like him. All the same, George’s stomach twists and he can taste his heartbeat in his throat. “No, I don’t think so. A bit old for that, I hope. Is it maybe my eyebrows? I think my left one’s going bald.”

Grace looks up at George with her own brows furrowed, studying his face at great length, before she laughs and says, “No, your eyebrow is not going bald. I don’t know what it is. Something’s just changed in your face. But turn around now, love, I have to get the seat of your trousers. It’s too baggy. I wish you lot would just invest in some skinny jeans.”

“No thanks,” George says. “I like to keep my bum to myself, if it’s all the same.”

George stares in the mirror as Grace fiddles with the backside of his trousers. He’s looked different for a year than he did before he turned eighteen, and for the first few months of the transformation, he’d taken a photo of himself every morning just to compare them, watching in a slideshow on his laptop as his hormone fat melted off and his jaw sharpened and his cheekbones emerged like knives. He captioned them when things were particularly noticeable— _grew two inches height last night_ , _lost five stone since 7/2011_ , _teeth whiter_. But for six years, he was short and round and pale and his hair was always greasy and he sweated near-constantly. So he forgets, generally, what he looks like now anyway, and he hasn’t taken photos of himself in six months, so maybe he wouldn’t be able to name the difference even if it were staring at him right from his own face, a different tilt of his nose or a reddening of his lips. George had barely got used to what he looked like as an adult omega, and now he looks like a Bonded grown man and he doesn’t recognize himself.

When Josh comes into the room, grumbling and feeling up his own massive eyebrows, George watches him in the mirror too as Nana starts cutting Josh’s scoop-neck even scoopier down his chest. What did Josh look like three years ago? What did he look like when he met JJ?

Had Harry looked different when he turned up last night, and George didn’t even notice? Or at breakfast today? Would it show on Harry at all?

Finally, George’s trousers and Josh’s deep-neck shirt are set and it’s Jaymi- and JJ’s turns for the styling room as the omegas are released for lunch. There’s no one else in the commissary besides Christopher Maloney, and neither Josh nor George has any interest in sitting with him, or he them, so they go through the line and get a table in the corner near the fichus just for themselves. 

“So,” Josh says. He’s leaning on his elbows and looking over at George struggling to get the cellophane unstuck from his turkey wrap. “When your own Bond tries to kiss you, you break all my toes, but then five minutes later you’ll kiss Ella in front of him? Interesting tactic. I can’t decide whether you’re a masochist or a sadist.”

George has mayonnaise all over his fingers. “What?”

“That was cruel, what you did to Harry,” Josh explains. “And stupid at the same time. Listen, I’m perfectly happy with JJ, blissful even, but if Harry Styles wanted to kiss me, I wouldn’t leap away.”

“I didn’t leap,” George says, and wipes his hands on a paper napkin. “I just stepped and your foot happened to be there. Your big dumb foot.”

“George,” Josh says, “My foot forgives you. If I were Harry, though, I don’t know I would. Didn’t it hurt spending the day you Bonded away from him? After JJ and I Bonded, he left the room to wee once and I started crying.”

“You cry all the time,” George dismisses him. He rearranges his lettuce. “I’m not you. And you were in love with JJ, so that’s different.”

“Yeah, but it hurts, being apart so soon, and you can’t pretend it doesn’t. If I poked you right now, you’d wince. How can you think it’s any less for Harry?” Josh takes a bite of his spag bol and hisses as it burns his mouth. Once he’s downed half of his water, he asks, “Don’t you want to be in love with Harry?”

“Not… really,” George says slowly. “Does that make a difference? I was sort of planning on just, you know, being really busy and he’s really busy and then once a month we’ll meet up and he’ll give me a knot and we’ll chew the fat for half an hour after and that’s that. I don’t really—I don’t _have_ time to spend with him, and it doesn’t hurt that badly. It’ll fade.”

Josh is giving him that look again, head tilted and mouth slack like he isn’t really sure whether to speak or stay silent. Although it might just be that he’s airing out his burnt tongue. “You know Harry’s not going to go for that, right? Knotting once a month is bullshit.”

George pushes away the last three-quarters of his sandwich. He doesn’t want it. Not hungry anyway. “I know, but. Just let me dream.”

“Wait, what?” Josh takes the discarded sandwich and talks with his mouthful around a bite. “ _Not_ getting fucked by Harry is the _dream_?”

“Yeah. And you owe me four pounds for that sandwich if you eat it.”

“Fine. George, if it’d go in and JJ wouldn’t be sad about it, I would drop pencils in front of Harry _all day_. I don’t even think JJ would be sad that I was fucking someone else, he’d just be sad that it meant he wasn’t riding Harry like a racehorse. What are you even?”

George’s face is definitely on fire. Probably any moment, the overhead sprinklers will go off. “That’s gross.”

“Why is it gross?” Josh asks. “Harry is fit. He’s more or less unanimously considered the fittest. If there’s any reason to keep it quiet that you’re Harry’s omega now, it’s so you don’t drown in the tears of every other omega on Earth. You don’t love him, you don’t _want_ to love him, and you claim you don’t like getting his knot, so why the fuck did you even?”

“Because I’d have to miss Saturday otherwise,” George snaps, “And I don’t love him and I don’t see the point in getting knotted for no reason when I’m not even in Heat, but for some reason I do love you guys and I love Union J and I didn’t want—I don’t want to let anyone down.” He stands up. “You don’t get it. It doesn’t matter anyway, to Harry. He’s still—he and Caroline, they’re—” George leans down. “I could smell him on her sheets before he even arrived, so. I don’t think he really minds that much.”

Josh looks, for some reason, genuinely sad. “Even if he is, or was, still dating Caroline, George, you have to know it’s different. You being an omega. You being _his_ omega. Maybe he is still in love with Caroline but it’s totally unrelated to how he feels about you. It’s really—I can’t tell you how to live your life or whatever, but I think you should talk to Caroline about it. ‘Cause I have, just chatting, you know. I think there’s a good reason she set you and Harry up together. There’s just a lot you don’t know.”

“Well—there’s a lot you don’t know, either!” George walks briskly as he can out of the commissary and hopes that Josh didn’t notice that was about the worst retort of his life. He’s not great with replying to people since he got to London, is he. He’ll blame Harry for that. It feels good to blame Harry for it, Harry and his stupid dumb Alpha pheromones making George thicker and needier and Josh just had to point out that his bones hurt, didn’t he, because now George is noticing it again. That’s Harry’s fault, too. It’s easier to be angry than to feel bad about making Harry _sad_ this morning. 

George is sitting on the staircase, picking idly at a granola bar he bought from the vending machines, when Josh finds him a few minutes later.

Josh holds out half of the turkey sandwich. “Want the rest of this?”

“Fine,” George agrees, and he takes it. “You still owe me two pounds for the first half.”

“Never,” Josh says amiably, and he sits down on the step below George’s. “Your parents are betas, right?”

“Yeah, and my stepmum,” George says. “And my mum’s first husband, but I don’t really know him. That brother’s like, proper old and lives in Australia, so we don’t all get together much.”

“Right,” says Josh. “Well, I got adopted when I was a baby. So my Mum’s a Alpha and my dad’s an omega. And they both worked, right, but Mum always got home before dad did and she’d make him like, a really nice, really big tea for when he got home even though it took like, hours, and she had to feed me and my sister and brother like two hours before he even got there and it was probably a pain that we couldn’t just wait, but—whatever. The point is, she wanted to take care of him. It’s not just the omega who gets Bonded to their Alpha, George, Harry’s Bonded to you now, too, and like, I don’t know if you’re stupid or if you really didn’t notice how he was looking at you this morning, but I think you should let him take you to dinner if that’s what he wants. Or whatever. He’s different today, too.”

“I’m not stupid,” George mutters. He exhales, long and slow and cold. “I’m scared.”

“Of Harry?”

“Yes.”

Josh nudges George’s calf with his shoulder and then stays there, just a little weight against him. “Did he do something to make you scared of him?”

George shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s an Alpha. Everything he does is scary.”

“But you aren’t scared of Ella,” Josh points out. “Or JJ, are you? Or Jaymi?”

“I’m a little scared of Jaymi and JJ,” George admits, “But I’m not scared of Ella. I don’t know why, really; I guess ‘cause she’s young. And because—she can’t… decide things for me. Or change things for me. And Harry can. And that’s scary, isn’t it? I really want to be here and I want to be in Union J and I want to get my own flat. I’ve been saving up for a flat for years, you know. And now I might not ever get to live alone. And that fucking sucks because I really want to.”

“Yeah, Jaymi mentioned you like tidying up,” Josh says. “Weirdo. But I don’t think Harry’s going to, like. I don’t know really what you’re so scared he could change. He’s _done_ the X Factor. He’s not going to ring you on a Saturday morning and insist you like, fly to Iceland with him.”

George raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t know. ‘S the first place that popped into my head. I think you need to talk to him. About what you want and what he wants and see if what you want is the same thing. And it must be at least a bit, or Caroline wouldn’t have set you up. Especially if she cares about Harry.”

“But there’s that, too,” George says. “I barely know Caroline, really. And if she really—I asked _her_ to knot me, I asked a lot of times that night, and she said she wouldn’t. So obviously her priority was making sure Harry’d be happy, not me.”

Josh’s mouth draws together into a tight little bow. “That’s… not it, George. I think you need to talk to Caroline about it, but—that’s not why she wouldn’t give you a knot.”

They’re both quiet as George finally finishes the turkey sandwich in little nibbles, and Josh peels the paper from his water bottle. George’s mobile buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out to find an unfamiliar number has texted him, _1\. Digestives or Rich Tea biscuits? :)_

“It’s Harry,” George says quietly.

Josh claps George’s knee and stands to go. “Talk to him. Start little. Talk to Caroline. I’m going to go find JJ and an empty loo. Don’t talk to me for about an hour, although I might text you; sometimes he falls asleep on my back and it’s really dull.”

“Why’d’you do that?” George blurts, pocketing his phone. He still hasn’t answered Harry, because Digestives, of course. 

“What, fuck my boyfriend? ‘Cause it’s nice. Or I don’t know if nice is the right word.”

“Now I don’t know whether _you’re_ a masochist,” George says. “It’s awful.”

“It’s not awful if you aren’t in Heat,” Josh says, “And if you get knotted a lot, Heat’s not so bad.”

George perks up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Josh says. “I thought everyone knew that. You still have to stay on top of taking your suppressors and that, but yeah, calms it down. I don’t even remember when my Heat’s supposed to be.”

George nods, humming thoughtfully. “Right. Of course. Okay. Go ahead and find JJ, Joshy. I’ll see you later.”

“Talk to Harry,” Josh says sharply as he leaves the stairwell. “And Caroline, if you see her!”

George turns his mobile over in his hands a few times before opening Harry’s text again and replying.

_Digestive, ofc. Free for a bit after large-group rehearsal…you can come by if you still have time._

Then he stands up and heads back to the vending machines—Digestive biscuits sound excellent, actually—before going to find Jaymi to see if he wants to go back to their room and rehearse the song for a while. Josh and JJ can catch up when they’re able to move.

He’s still standing in the corridor, waiting for the metal claw to drop his packet of biscuits, when there’s a tap on his shoulder.

“You left these in my room,” Caroline says, holding out a Tesco sack with George’s shoes in it. “Along with a boy. And a dry cleaning bill, which I put in your shoes.”

“Sorry.” George feels his cheeks go pink. “I meant to find you after and tell you I’d take care of that, but I was—I just went back to my own room and then I didn’t see you yesterday.”

“That’s alright,” Caroline says. She hesitates as George bends down and takes his packet of biscuits. She accepts one after he tears open the foil and offers. “I heard though that you also didn’t see Harry yesterday?”

“Erm, no, in the end he turned up at my room,” George says. “So I saw him. Thanks. For arranging that.”

“Of course,” Caroline says, “He’s my friend and you’re my friend and I thought you’d get on. And you looked miserable. I’ve seen a few omegas go into Heat in my day and I’ve never seen anyone so despondent about it as you were. Are you alright?”

“’S just how it is, isn’t it?” George asks. “It hurts and it sucks and you miss things and people judge you for something you can’t help and make fun of you about it the rest of the time like it’s something hilarious or makes you, like, crazy, and then you get older and it ends. I’m just hanging on for another 141 months.”

“And now you have Harry,” Caroline reminds him, “To help you. You don’t have to feel all those things alone.”

“Sure I do,” George says. “It’s not like me going in Heat makes him go in Heat. I still feel that myself. But Josh says that—he says it can make it not feel so bad. Having an Alpha can, I mean.”

“I like to think so,” Caroline says. She walks alongside George, and only comes up to his shoulder even in her heels. It’s strange to think she’s an Alpha when she’s so small, until he looks over at her, anyway, to give her a little smile, and he’s hit with the ten megawatt tons of her power. She isn’t intimidating like Dermot or Gary, and she isn’t careless with that weight like Jaymi and JJ can be, but she isn’t like Harry, either, who tries to hide it under his skin. Caroline wears her status in every tilt of her head and the way she cants her shoulders against her hips. She looks up at George and touches his waist lightly. “It doesn’t solve everything, though. Bonding. If you’re really that unhappy, George, you can’t expect Harry to just… fix it. It’s not how it works, and it’ll make you both feel worse.”

“Oh, I don’t,” George assures her. “I don’t think he’ll really fix anything. He’ll just make the Heat shorter. And, you know, if Josh is right, which I sort of doubt because he and JJ are very weird, then it won’t be so… you know. You saw.”

“I did,” Caroline agrees. She rubs his back before taking her hand away. “Did you and Harry talk last night about what went wrong?”

“What d’you mean?” George’s pulse beats hard in his neck. “Did he—complain about me to you? Did something go wrong?”

“No, no, he just mentioned that as soon as you could move, you left,” Caroline says. “He assumed something went bad, like, that he hurt you badly or insulted you or something. He was worried you might—you were just really off that night.”

“I just wanted to sleep. There wasn’t anything wrong. And he’s texted me today, so I’ll see him later and I’ll let him know. And what would I even do? I just went back to my room and cried all over Jaymi for hours and then I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Caroline says softly. There’s a frisson in the air like she wants to touch him again, but doesn’t. “Do you like Harry? Are you glad he’s who I rang?”

“He’s alright,” George equivocates. “Seems solid enough. I’ve read that he does his own laundry and that. Seems to like fruit a sort of weird amount, but that’s not really a bad thing.”

Caroline laughs at that, lovely and raspy and low in her throat. “He does love fruit a weird amount. He commented after meeting you that you said you liked grapes and you smell like satsumas. Can I sniff you, George, I was going to and then I forgot.”

George giggles and holds out his arm gallantly. “Have at.”

After pressing her nose against the side of Geoge’s forearm, Caroline grins at him and shrugs. “I can’t say that I’d pin it to ‘satsumas’ specifically. I mean, citrus fruit, sure—”

“That’s just how omegas smell,” George says, waving his other hand. It gets crumbs of digestive biscuit everywhere. “At least say ‘orange.’”

“Alright, I’ll go with orange. And not all omegas smell like citrus fruit, just most. But now you smell like Harry, anyway, too, it’s sort of a whole toast-and-jam vibe now. And now I’m hungry.” She smiles at him. “I’m glad Harry found you. And I’m glad you’re feeling alright about everything.” She checks her wristwatch and pats George’s shoulder. “I’m going to go find Olly and Dermot and get some food. You should answer Harry; I heard your mobile buzz a bit ago.”

“Yeah,” George says, a twist in his belly at the fallout of his possibly-too-rash decision to invite Harry to come over and give him a knot when he isn’t even in Heat. He’s never—there isn’t really a point, is there, to fucking when it isn’t necessary and he hates the feeling of it, the sweaty painful bone-deep ache and raw chafing red swollenness of coming. 

Although what had Harry said last night?

It wouldn’t be _fun_ to have sex with George if he were tired.

George knew it was different for Alphas, and even betas, not to go through Heat, but he’d never thought the word ‘fun’ would be associated with fucking. He’d watched Parisa wobble out of his room wincing on jelly-legs enough times and seen the rugburn on her knees from his bedspread to know that it’s only fun if you like pain.

And he doesn’t really want to think about that.

He gives Caroline a pinched smile. “Yeah, I should answer him, shouldn’t I.”

“You should,” Caroline says. “And you should talk to him for real, I think, before you try to follow Josh’s advice. I’ve asked Josh for his opinion on something before and his mind works on a completely different plain than anyone else’s, doesn’t it?”

George giggles. “Yeah, well, he is Bonded to JJ. If it isn’t about a horse or a Pokémon, they’re both pretty useless.”

“Ugh, those horses,” Caroline groans. “You don’t have any idea how difficult it is to come up with so many interview questions about horses when you’re supposed to be commentating a music competition.” She smiles at George and it’s warm and open and George thinks, again, that it would have been nice to be her mate. “Take your shoes. Tell Harry I said hello. I’ll see you at Dress tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” George says. “Thanks, Caroline, and I’m sorry again about your sheets.”

“Don’t be sorry; just dry-clean them.” Caroline winks. Her heels tap on the floor as she walks off, and George jogs up the stairs to find Jaymi and his guitar case to catch a shuttle back to the Corinthia. Only after he’s sitting in the van does he remember that he was supposed to ask Caroline why she didn’t want to Bond to him herself, and George flicks his own thigh in annoyance that he’d forgotten.

He doesn’t think he’d be quite so nervous if it were Caroline. There’s something mellow about her; her Alpha pheromones don’t peel into his guts and string them open the same way that Harry’s do. When George looks at Harry, he feels like he’s an onion being husked layer by layer, and already Harry’s taken off the paper exterior that George has always, always worn to keep himself safe so he can grow. Caroline doesn’t feel like that. Caroline doesn’t feel all that different from talking to Josh does, really, except she says fewer things that are half-mad. He was always taught, sure that Bonding to an Alpha makes omegas more emotional and easily distracted, but he didn’t realize how much he would feel. There isn’t an emotion he can name that he’s feeling a lot of—just… much.

He doesn’t check his mobile until they’re back in their room again, Jaymi taking a shower and singing Kelly Rowland at the top of his lungs in their joint bathroom. George’s guitar is sitting out on his lap when he finally digs into his pocket for his mobile.

_Yes please .x Does 8:00 work?_

George fingerpicks a few notes before he realizes that they’re the tune of “Live While We’re Young,” and he quickly stops, sitting on his hand. With the other, he taps out _ok_ on his keypad and presses Send before he loses his nerve.

There’s probably some sort of etiquette for this, Alpha rendezvous that happen without the haze of Heat to drive him forward. He’s already in his bed, he supposes. He doesn’t really know what else Harry would want. Mood music? Well, apparently George does know how to play Harry’s latest single. He could always do that if Harry wants entertainment.

Jaymi comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his head like a turban. His tattoos are stark against the pale rest of him, and even though George does not want to look, and does not mean to let his eyes go there, it’s a scary reminder of just how _big_ Alphas are compared to their omegas. Jaymi isn’t even hard and he’s twice George’s size. A zinging shock pulse through George to the small of his back and the bits between his legs with the reminder of how it felt to have Harry against him that morning. And then a hollow, nervous-rabbiting dread at how big he’d been sliding into George during the Heat, and that was when George had been loose and needy and wet.

“You alright, George?” Jaymi asks. He’s taken the towel off his hair and wrapped it around his waist, thank god, as he riffles through his closet for a pair of pyjamas. “You look a bit green.”

“I’m alright,” George says. “Erm, Harry’s coming by again at about eight. Only for an hour or two. If you don’t want to leave the room, though, I can tell him not to come.”

“No, he should,” Jaymi agrees. “You’ve barely spent time together, awake, anyway. And you were adorable asleep together. Curled up like puppies, weren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” George says. “I’ve never had a puppy.”

“That’s a bit more literal than I meant it,” Jaymi says. His head emerges from a t-shirt. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need a bin to be sick?”

“ _No_ ,” George says. “I’m just—I’ve never, you know… other than during Heat and that’s different.”

“It’s only a little different,” Jaymi says, and George’s stomach bottoms out. “If you’re scared, just tell him. But there’s nothing to be scared of, George, it’s just sex.” Jaymi drops the towel and pulls up his trousers. His legs are covered in dark hair, and he’s got a stone on George, easy. There’s a photo of Olly on Jaymi’s nightstand, and he looks like he’s nearly as tall and about as broad as Jaymi. They look a bit alike, truth be told, except their hair colors and that Jaymi, of course, has tattoos and hair that Olly can’t. They look happy, in the picture, both of them. Even with their shirts off.

“Right,” George agrees. “It’s just sex.”

 

̊Adapted for this work from [The Good Wife’s Guide](http://www.j-walk.com/other/goodwife/images/goodwifeguide.gif).

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings** : Sexual content (slash [fingering, PiA, mentions of come]); graphic sexual dialogue; references to off-screen past minor unnamed character suicide (no details).  
>  **Disclaimer** : I don't own anything. No claim of knowledge or veracity is made towards anyone in the story and no aspersions or claims of character are to be inferred. We have no connection nor permissions from One Direction, X-Factor, Crown Management, RCA, Sony, ITV, or AlphaDog Management, OR SyCo Inc., Columbia Records, or any other affiliated parties. No libel intended.

** Genesis **

  
_Romeo & Juliet, III.v._

I'll say yon grey is but the morning's eye,  
'Tis the devoted grace of my Sun’s brow;  
And that is yet the lark, whose notes do beat  
The Godly stardust so high above our heads:  
I have more need to stay than will to go:  
Come, death, and we’ll Bond! Juliet wills it so.  
How is't, my soul? let's talk; it is Earth’s day.

***

At ten minutes to eight o’clock, George changed out of one pair of jeans and into another, then out of that pair and into pyjamas. They’d be coming off soon enough, anyway, and Harry could never see him looking worse than he had in Caroline’s room.

Five minutes to eight o’clock finds George in the bathroom with floss in one hand and his comb in the other. (Four minutes to eight o’clock sees him spitting hair into the sink.)

At two minutes until eight o’clock, though, George can smell Harry just through the door, waiting and breathing and probably checking his watch for the time. George hovers near the door, too, just on the other side, his hand an inch from the knob but refusing to land and let Harry inside until Harry knocks. He has to ask first. He has to announce himself and wait to see whether George will let him inside. George’s stomach and spleen and tongue and teeth and fingertips are all pulling like magnets to the other side of the door where Harry is, and he knows that Harry must feel it, too, but he won’t crack first and just allow him into his space and his time and—and—and his _body_ and his _life_ until Harry knocks at the door and asks.

Just before the clock ticks over to 8:01, Harry does knock, and George bites the inside of his cheek lightly as he turns the knob.

“Hi,” Harry says. He’s wearing black jeans again and a different black shirt; the sleeves are rolled up and pinned so George can see the tattoos arranged over the softer, paler insides of his arms. Harry tucks his hand back into his front pocket, and George can just barely make out an _I can’t change…_ across his wrist. “I was surprised you texted.”

“We should get to know each other, right?” George steps aside and gestures into the room. “You can come in.”

“Thanks.” Harry comes through the door and George closes it behind him. He locks it, too, standing close enough to Harry that the smell of him sets bells pinging off in his brain with bright pictures fleeting too quickly to catch: there’s skin, and there’s home, and there’s fear, and there’s a strange sort of settling, disquieting satisfaction that George doesn’t know how to name, but it’s enough that he gives Harry a little smile.

“Did you want to go somewhere?” Harry asks. He’s staring at George’s mouth. “I could get us reservations for 8:30 or nine if you wanted—I don’t know, it basically seemed like you didn’t really want to spend any time alone in a room with me.”

George licks his lip, and Harry startles, his cheeks going a little pink as he darts his eyes up to meet George’s gaze. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay here.” He coughs. “And, you know. Spend… time alone? In a room. Together. And stuff.”

Harry doesn’t even take his hands out of his pockets, and the time ticks past on his watch until George has to duck his head and cough again because the small of his back is itchy and there’s sweat under his arms.

“We don’t have to,” he adds quickly. “We can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do,” Harry says. He smiles, then, brightening, and it’s like a year is shaved off of his face. “I want to do exactly whatever you want to do.”

What George wants is to sleep, and to eat a plate of chips and some pizza and a milkshake, and he wants to play guitar and win the X Factor, and he wants to go play with Ella even though she keeps asking to give him a manicure (and Harry said his nails didn’t need varnish), and he wants to know why Harry is playing this game with him. If he said _I want to sit and watch television and maybe order up some chips_ , Harry would laugh in his face.

So what he says instead is, “I want to be your omega the right way.”

Harry’s face closes a little again as his brows drop, furrowing at the middle. So do his lips, and it strikes George how full and red they are. “Okay… so what do you want to _actually_ do?” When George flounders at that, his face going red around the edges, Harry offers, “I’m sort of hungry. Do you want me to wait while you change and we can go out? Or… we can order up. Watch some telly.”

Oh.

George should have worn the jeans, maybe combed his hair differently. 

“We don’t have to,” George says, but then his stomach rumbles and Harry’s cheek dimples as he gives George a knowing look. George ducks his head, giggling, arms wrapped around his stomach. “Okay. I don’t—there have been photographers outside and I don’t know that I’m supposed to let anyone know I’ve Bonded yet. I mean, other than the people I actually know. The show’s on Saturday and it’s, sort of, you know. Our hook.”

“Right,” Harry says. “Your hook. Do people not know Josh and JJ are together, then?”

“No, but I don’t know how they miss it. They’re always fucking stuck together in broom cupboards,” George mutters, and oh—he shouldn’t have said that.

But Harry is just laughing. He barks like a seal, his eyes huge and bright. It’s—George has to admit, quietly, in the seat of his stomach, that it’s beautiful, that being the person who could make Harry laugh like that—

It feels good.

And George wants more of it, if he’s completely honest with himself as he watches Harry cover his mouth with one big hand and laugh and laugh. Finally, Harry stops laughing and wheezes, but that makes George start giggling again. This isn’t what he’d expected when he texted Harry to come over, and it’s been a long time since George laughed like this, enough that it hurt his stomach and made his eyes water. The last time had probably been before he left to come to London, watching Annabelle hang off Archie’s neck as Archie tried to copycat Leo out in the garden dancing to _Gangnam Style_. This doesn’t feel anything like that; that had been a comfortable, nostalgic fondness. This is a fierce, protective soft swell around George’s heart that crackles proud at being able to make Harry happy and wanting to do it again, and again and again and again. 

(He thinks that might just be _Harry_ , not George’s-Alpha-Harry-Styles. It was the seal’s bark. It’s a good laugh. George appreciates a unique laugh on a person. Not enough people have their own definitive laughs, he thinks.)

Harry sags backwards against one of the chairs that sit on either side of the perfunctory hotel room side table. He’s watching George laugh like it’s something small and fragile that he’s brought home in his pocket after it fell out of a nest. “How do the janitors feel about that?”

George snorts. “Oh, I bet they’re thrilled.”

There’s a minute’s silence. For the first time between them, it’s natural. 

Harry stands and dusts his hands off on his thighs before toeing out of his shoes. “Room service, then?”

“Sure,” George agrees, and the sour-nervous twist in his gut settles back into place. 

They sit on either side of the little table and share an enormous platter of chips. Harry gets a sandwich, too, which he tears apart to rearrange layer-by-layer before declaring it _not great_. He tells George about his own time on the show, all of the misadventures that he and Louis Tomlinson used to get up to back in the old X Factor House and how they’d only been given tiny bunk beds in a room all five members of One Direction were meant to share together. He glosses over meeting Caroline, George notices, and instead talks about trips to America to film. How Louis was nearly arrested for driving too slowly in Los Angeles. How Louis overturned a paddleboat in New York and they all thought they’d be eaten by the Lake Placid crocodile. How Louis almost drowned him with apple juice in Texas. Louis, Louis, Louis.

(It occurs to George, when Harry’s fingers brush his on the plate of chips, that maybe Harry hasn’t asked him for sex again yet because he really is… that way. The way that would be more interested in Louis. And Caroline. Other Alphas.)

“We were living together until just recently, actually,” Harry says. “But now he’s—anyway, I have a new house? It’s a new old house, actually. And it’s haunted by a pirate ghost. I know it sounds like I think I live in a pineapple under the sea if I say that, but it’s true, he’s called Dick. That’s probably an appropriate ghost to have belong to me.” Harry chortles a bit. George swallows and pushes the last chip over to Harry’s side of their platter. He takes it, then wipes the last bit of salt and grease on his jeans. He gives George a little smile as he chews. “So,” Harry asks. “How about you?”

George shifts in his seat. He doesn’t think Harry really wants to hear about Parisa, who is the closest thing he has to a Louis of his own. “No, no ghosts for me. And I don’t sleep underwater.”

“That’s good.”

There’s another silence, and this one doesn’t feel so natural. It’s hovering, insistent, a visible silence filling in the space between them with a woven wall that George knows, if it isn’t torn down now, will only get thicker and harder. He doesn’t want it to be explosive when it happens. 

So instead of speaking, George just leans across the table and kisses Harry’s cheek. His skin is soft, minus the covering of stubble that George had come to expect on Alpha faces after seeing Jaymi- and JJ’s morning selves for the last month. Harry is gentler all over, George thinks absently.

Harry blinks. “What was that for?”

“I—this morning, when I didn’t let you kiss me, but then I kissed Ella, that was… I’m sorry,” George says. He decides to go for the truth. “I was just nervous.”

“I figured as much.” Harry doesn’t move his hand from the tabletop, but his fingers twitch just enough that George can tell he wants to reach out and touch him. “I don’t want you to be nervous around me.”

“I’m not, now,” George lies. “I talked to Josh.” That much is true. He did talk to Josh, and he knows better what to think of what being an omega can mean. If he can get rid of the Heat quickly by letting Harry fuck him once a month, then that’s already better than he’s ever had it, but if he can make the Heat virtually unnoticeable—

George leans forward and kisses Harry’s cheek again, a little closer to the corner of his mouth. “I’m not nervous.” He takes a deep breath, face still near the soft curls of Harry’s hair, and whispers, mostly to himself as a shiver courses down to the base of his spine, “Smells good.”

“You do, too,” Harry murmurs back. He still doesn’t touch George, and his head stays bowed to look at his lap. “I haven’t—it’s hurt more than I thought, being away from you. But I don’t want you feel like—”

“I’ve just been busy.”

“They’ve given you time,” Harry mutters. “Even I got time.”

“I could’ve had the rehearsals off, but then we’d’ve sounded bad,” George says. “The whole reason I wanted to Bond right away was so that I could do the show this week and not miss it. I wasn’t going to end up missing it anyway. But now we have Bonded,” he adds quickly, “And we have the room for a while. Jaymi’s gone to Luton to see his omega for the night, too. Olly.”

“Yeah, he mentioned,” Harry says. “In the corridor before breakfast. He said they Bonded the night they met, too, and now they’re getting married.”

“Yeah,” George says. “That’s what he told me. They seem happy.”

Harry licks his lip. Just a dart of the tongue. His eyes flick up, and George can’t quite look away. The green of Harry’s eyes has a ring of mottled gray. His pupils are huge, like his eyes can’t let in enough light to see as much of George as he wants. “I want us to be happy.”

George swallows. “I want to be happy, too.” He exhales. “So you can kiss me now, if you still want. From this morning. I erm, I won’t run off and kiss Ella.”

There’s a moment.

Harry closes his eyes. George can see every dark eyelash. (He doesn’t close his own.)

And then Harry is kissing him. 

Their lips press together once before Harry pulls back like he’s waiting for George to run. When he doesn’t, Harry leans forward again, closing the gap between them. 

George has been kissed before, of course. He used to kiss Parisa sometimes, when they were bored or when she’d done something he was proud of her for or when he’d done something he was particularly proud of. The first time they’d kissed had been back when George was still an Ugly Duckling, and had orthodontia alongside everything else. He’d cut his lip on the metal brackets and the kiss tasted like blood, but Parisa was shy and sweet about it and she’d bought him an ice cream with flake after. They’d eaten them on the pier, sitting right at the edge to look down at the water. And then they’d kissed again, and sort of never stopped. Until George moved to London.

And now he’s kissing Harry Styles, or being kissed by him. The kisses are so light and so chaste, closed-mouthed and brushing and gentle, that George barely has to do anything at all.

Harry inches back. “Are you sure this is okay?”

“Yeah,” George says, “Why, yeah, it’s—this is fine.”

“You just… aren’t… also kissing,” Harry says. “Usually if it’s fine, you’d be—like, also kissing. Basically.”

“No, I—want, I’m kissing,” George protests. He darts forward and leaves a peck on Harry’s mouth. “See? Kissing. Sorry, I was just… distracted, I… I haven’t done this outside of Heat before. Not the kissing, I’ve done kissing and was, in fact, doing the kissing just now. I meant the sex… parts.”

“Are we having sex tonight?” Harry asks. His eyebrows disappear up into his fringe. “I… did not know that.”

“I assumed we were,” George says. He panic-giggles, then clears his throat. It squeaks, and he nervously giggles again. “Sorry. For the giggling. Not the assumption. And the assumption, if it bothers you, I just… assumed. That you’d want to. This morning before you woke up, you were—so I thought you’d want to. With me.”

George watches Harry’s Earth’s apple bob. 

“I do want to,” Harry whispers. “With you. But I don’t want to scare you away again.”

George swallows. _It’s not awful if you aren’t in Heat, Josh said, And if you get knotted a lot, Heat’s not so bad._ “I won’t get scared away again,” George promises. “I’m ready now.”

For the long, stretching minute that Harry just stares at him, George wonders whether Harry can feel through their Bond that he’s telling the truth—but not quite—and lying at the same time—but not quite. He is ready to start his life, start getting rid of the Heat, and if that means he needs to start getting knotted on a regular basis, he’s ready to accept that. He can’t promise, though, not really, that he can’t get scared away again, and that’s infuriating: George has faced fear his whole life, and he crushed it to come to London at all, and he may want to refuse to let Harry scare him again, he can’t control the jump of his stomach as Harry slides one big hand over George’s knee and murmurs, “Okay. Can we go to the bed? We can still start slow. Kiss some more.”

George stands. “Sure. It’s, you know, clean. And stuff. The hotel service turned it down this morning. After you left. I’m very tidy, also, I can make beds. I always made my own bed back home. I don’t mind… making beds. Keeping tidy.”

Harry smiles softly, more eyes than lips. “Good to know, I suppose. I’m not very tidy, but I can cook.”

“I can cook, too,” George assures him. “I can do everything I’m supposed to do. Plus also guitar, obviously. But I can even sew okay.”

“Right,” Harry says. “I don’t think I want any sewing during sex. I get enough needles with my tattoos.”

George squawks and ducks to cover his mouth with his shirt’s crew-neck as he giggles wildly, following Harry over to the bed. Harry peels his socks off and sets them in a pointedly neat pile at the foot of the bed before he looks over his shoulder at George and pulls back the coverlet.

George bustles around to the light switch and flicks it off, sending the room into pale purple darkness. The bedside table lamp clicks on instead at Harry’s hand, and soft yellow light pools onto the bed. Harry stands again, looks over his shoulder, and smiles at George.

“Alright?”

George nods. “Yeah. That’s alright. Erm, so what do we—?”

The bed creaks lightly as Harry sits down in the middle of the mattress and pats the space beside him. “Come sit with me.”

When they’re kissing again, it occurs to George that it really is sort of nice, kissing Harry. He’s a good kisser, and his mouth fits George’s, which has been historically unlikely in other potential kissing partners that George has met, or even imagined. But Harry’s lips tug at his softly, without biting or bruising, and there isn’t any lip gloss that tastes like bubblegum or cherries or chemicals that are meant to taste like bubblegum or cherries. Instead there’s just Harry, sweet almond and pumpkin and crispness, and a bit of the salt from the chips they’d shared. It’s nice. George rests his hand on the side of Harry’s face and Harry makes a happy little sound, sliding his own hand around the small of George’s back so that just his pinkie is beneath the cotton of his t-shirt, hot against George’s skin.

George scoots closer, letting Harry wrap him up in one strong arm. When he doesn’t do anything else, George tentatively opens one eye even as he keeps kissing.

Harry is looking back, and George squeaks and they both pull back on a laugh so they don’t bite each other.

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs. “I keep waiting for you to take the next move, and you’re not.”

George flounders a bit, waving his hands and still giggling under his breath. “I don’t?”

“Here.” Harry scoops George up against him with the arm around his waist, then carefully lowers George onto his back on the bed. “Let’s just – we’ll kiss like this now and see how it goes?”

“Sure.” George isn’t giggling now. His mouth is dry, so he licks his lip a bit before Harry can kiss it again and find out.

There’s tongue, this time, when Harry leans down over George’s body and slots their lips together. And that’s still perfectly nice; it feels warm and the rhythm is good, suction is good, and George knows how to do this. Snogging. He’s surprised when his hand can fit around the bulk of Harry’s strong upper arm—he’d thought he was much smaller than Harry, but he might not really be. Or his hands are big, George thinks errantly, kissing and wondering how long Harry plans on kissing. He’s always had long-fingered hands for guitar.

Harry’s breath huffs lightly against George’s neck. “This okay?”

“Yep,” George assures him. “Still good.”

Harry noses at the crest of George’s cheek. His hand wraps around the back of George’s thigh and it’s startling how easily Harry can move him, Harry settling into the gap between George’s legs so that their hips can grind together. George sucks a breath in through his teeth, and Harry brushes his lips over the bow of George’s mouth.

“Still okay?”

George nods. “Peachy.”

 _Peachy_. He has to stop mentioning odd fruits around Harry. He’s never done this before. It’s something wrong with Harry and his presence.

Harry just laughs softly and tucks his face into the curve of George’s neck. His lips tickle as he agrees, “Peachy keen.”

George watches the water spot as Harry sucks little kisses all along the column of his throat. His hips are pressing the same way they had in the morning, except with purpose; Harry’s rhythm is slow and rolling but definite, already familiar, and George can feel Harry getting hard as he moves over George, pressing in against him with insistence. Harry’s breath stutters, too, warm and hinting at the same toasty satisfied sounds that he’d made in his sleep, little groans and rumbles of encouragement against George’s lips.

And it starts again.

It can’t be Heat, George _knows_ that. He knows it can’t be the Heat because it doesn’t _work_ that way, but the same icyhot swirling is starting up in the pit of his stomach, moving between his legs. It’s like a dive into deep water. There’s a fizzing, an effervescence tingling up across George’s skin everywhere from the places that Harry is moving against him, everywhere that the heavyhotbulk of Harry is touching George’s skin, almond scent and warmth bleeding through their clothes.

It’s scary.

It’s not bad.

But it’s scary.

Harry mumbles something incoherent, wordless and intimate and quiet, against the side of George’s face and—

It’s happening again. George can feel himself start to harden up, pushing back against Harry. He can feel Harry smile against the side of his face, and that’s not—

It’s not _funny_. If this keeps up any longer, it might, George might, and it’s embarrassing and messy and it hurts. Not the first time, but there won’t be just once. It doesn’t work that way, either. 

George pushes at Harry’s shoulder. “Can we just—you know?”

Harry looks surprised. “Sure. Are you… I don’t really smell a lot of, it’s just that I thought you’d… erm. Basically I thought you might not be ready?”

“I’m fine,” George says quickly. He keeps pushing at Harry’s shoulder until he settles back on his heels and George can roll over to present. “Just, you know. Let’s go.”

“Do you… want to like. Be naked?” 

“No,” George says. “Just, you know. Pants off is fine. You can be naked if you want. I erm, I get cold easily.”

“You get cold easily.”

“Yeah,” George repeats into the pillow. “I get cold easily.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “Erm, I get… warm… easily. So I’m going to take my clothes off? If that’s alright?”

“Yep,” George says cheerfully. “Totally fine.”

There’s a rustle, and then a soft _flump_ as Harry’s shirt lands on the floor next to the bed. “Do you want me to take your pants off, or are you doing it?”

“Oh!” George doesn’t particularly want to roll over and show Harry his front, how… he’s up. _Not supposed to look wanton._ Especially just for a knot. Not even during Heat. “You can… just pull ‘em down.”

“Erm.” The bed creaks and shifts, and then Harry’s jeans hit the floor, too. “Okay. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yep,” George says. “One-hundred percent. I’m just, you know. Really comfortable. Not too comfortable! It’s not like I spend all my time on my… hands and knees. Or anything. The erm, the bed is soft. It’s a soft bed. Like a cloud. A cloud bed. But less made of water vapor.”

“Probably not made of water vapor hardly at all,” Harry agrees. His hands settle around George’s waist. “Should I take these off?”

George swallows and tightens up his stomach muscles, willing his body to calm itself. It’s embarrassing. They’re just hands on his waist. There’s no reason to feel so… butterfliesy.

His pyjama pants come down.

“Knees up,” Harry murmurs, and George’s face feels hot as he lifts his knees and Harry gentles the pants down around them. George has such knobbly knees. Harry probably thinks he has chicken legs. _Why the fuck should George give a flying fuck what Harry fucking Styles think about his fucking knees; they’re_ knees _for fuck’s sake_. Harry kisses the small of George’s back. “You okay? You seem… tense.”

“I’m good,” George says, and he buries a raw giggle in his elbow. “Good to go.”

“Are you?” Harry’s hands slide up the backs of George’s thighs. “You seem… hang on.” And then fingertips are prodding at George’s rim, and George squeaks, opening his legs a bit wider. Harry’s fingers slide, but there’s less give than there had been during the Heat. “Aren’t you supposed to be wetter?”

“Took tablets.” George arches his back a little, trying to get comfortable. There’s a wrinkle in the sheet under his knee, and it’s cutting into his skin. There will be a line there later. 

“Why?” Harry curls his fingers once, testing. “I thought that was just to stop, you know, pregnancy.”

“No, those are suppressors, I took tablets, too,” George says. He winces and grits his teeth before saying, “Look, can you just—it’s fine, but your knuckles hurt or something; I don’t know.”

“Would—” Harry swallows around the word. “Erm, if I… find the right spot… will you get wetter? Or do your tablets like, make it so you just _can’t_ today?”

George wrinkles his nose. The right spot? George spent most of his time trying to make sure he wasn’t scenting; he’d never really considered trying to do it on purpose. “I think it just means I can’t. Just, it’s fine, really. Just the knuckles. Or maybe the fingernails.”

“Oh.” Harry’s fingers disappear, and George sighs in relief. “Sorry! Yeah, that could be. I’ll make sure I cut them shorter. I didn’t think we’d… for a while.”

“It’s fine.” George rearranges his knees and settles down until his face is rested between his forearms. “Just get on with it already.”

“Right,” Harry says, and he sounds a little rattled. “Are you sure you don’t need… more? Something?”

“Nope,” George says cheerfully. “Just a knot.”

The bed shifts again as Harry moves, and there’s a wettish, loosely rhythmic sound. When George glances back around his arm, Harry is leaning back to give himself the room to pump his hand up and down the length of his cock, bringing it up to full hardness, thick and dark between his hips. George tries not to look, but he’s curious; he’d felt it that morning when Harry moved in his sleep, and he’d seen it through the haze of Heat just a day before, but he hadn’t really _looked_ at it yet. Harry seems to be studiously avoiding the soft-looking ridge of darker skin around the base where his knot would come up and hold him inside George, but that’s where George most wanted to see.

It seems, looking at it wrapped in Harry’s hand, to be completely ridiculous that so much of George’s life has been affected and ruled and decided by a blob of skin and muscle and blood. And it’s not even on his own body.

Harry looks up and his eyes are bright, reflecting all of the light in the room. He sees George looking, and he smiles. “Hey, you.”

George goes bright red and tucks his face down again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” The bed moves, and then the heat of Harry’s thighs whispers up against the backs of George’s. “I like when you look at me.” He tugs lightly on the back of George’s t-shirt. “Are you sure I can’t see you?”

“Maybe next time,” George mutters. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” Harry doesn’t hesitate after that, and as he starts pushing into George, slowly slowly because without the added slick of the Heat he’s a hare too big for a comfortable slide, George leans up on one arm and clicks out the bedside light.

By the time Harry’s hips are flush with George’s backside, Harry is bent over George so that they’re folded like paper, Harry’s front pressed every inch against George’s back so he can smudge soft kisses along the backs of George’s shoulders.

He’s very, very big when George isn’t wet and loose and half-crazed with needing him. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but the stretch and the pressure are… interesting. George is so busy trying to figure out whether Harry’s finally all the way in that he doesn’t have to deal with being hard anymore; he’s gone back to normal.

“Is it okay?”

“It’s fine, Harry, just… go. Move. Or whatever.”

Harry nuzzles against George’s neck. “Yeah, I just… I need a second. You feel… you’re mi—you, I just feel a lot. Of things.”

“Yeah,” George mumbles. _You’re mine_. “There’s a lot of feelings.”

Harry eases back and pushes forward again, and it’s different, to notice what sex is like without the Heat driving everything forward. George can feel the drags, the thickness of Harry moving in him, when before it’d been just _enoughnotenoughenoughnotenough_. There are moments that the tingling, sweeping, blustery feeling comes back, but then Harry moves or shifts or George’s leg dips and it’s gone again. The sound gets wetter, though, as Harry moves in George and George keeps his face in the pillows so that he doesn’t whine at the knowledge that he’ll be leaky with scent again after.

“Are you close?” Harry pants after a while. “I’m sorr—I can’t help it, it’s, you’re… are you close?”

“Yeah, sure.” Of course he’s close. Harry’s _in_ him. They literally couldn’t be closer.

Harry’s breath is loud and heavy in George’s ear and he thrusts again, two, three times. George feels the ridge at the base of Harry’s cock starting to thicken and then Harry pushes in deep with a groan and his knot pops, huge enough to make George grunt and catch his lips between his teeth in surprise. It pulsates, and George can feel the alien, warm splash of Harry’s come inside him, spurt after spurt. Harry moans, hips still rocking just enough to seat the knot in deeper, and then he collapses with his forehead against George’s shoulder. He sighs, low and rumbling in his chest where it presses up against George’s back. He’s very warm. And very heavy. “I’m sorry that was so quick. You just feel so good.”

“Mm-hmm,” George mumbles. “Can we roll over or something?”

“Oh!” Harry wraps an arm around George’s waist and carefully tips them over onto their sides. The knot pulls a little at the stretched rim of George’s hole and George hisses. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” George mutters. “I’m fine.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Harry says softly. His hand rubs over George’s stomach, and George holds his breath. “And I’ll be able to last longer, too. Just have to wank more or something.” He laughs softly against the back of George’s neck. “Are you sure you came? I didn’t hear you.”

“Yeah,” George says, “Don’t worry about it. Don’t try to make me come now.”

Harry kisses George’s shoulder. “I won’t. But you’re sure it was okay?”

It was a knot. It did was it was meant to. Harry is still pulsing come into George, and Harry is shivering against George’s back, and George doesn’t hurt anywhere except his knees. It was fine.

“It was fine.”

“You liked it?”

George closes his eyes. “It was fine.”

The shape of a smile presses against the back of George’s neck. “You don’t have to lie. I know it wasn’t great. Especially compared to the first time we—you know. That was amazing. Just… I felt like we really clicked, you know? And I know some of that was Bonding and it’s not like I don’t think we clicked tonight, just… you know, basically, you seemed more into it then. And you… were so gorgeous. I’d love to make you want it like that again, but I guess that’ll come with time, right? Knowing each other like that. But I guess some of that’s the Heat, yeah? I always wonder what that’s actually like for you. Or for omegas, I guess, I’ve only wondered about you specifically since we met. Just orgasms and orgasms. When I was dating Caroline, I asked her once to knot me, though, so I think I know a bit what it’s like.”

The sheer

fucking

arrogance 

fucking

self-centered stupid mouthy reprehensible—

Harry’s hand wanders down George’s stomach and his palm covers George’s soft, utterly uninterested cock. “I just… it was so good, and I like knowing that at least we can get that right, even if I keep getting everything else wrong.”

Well.

At least he has one thing right.

He has everything, everything fucking wrong.

“Harry,” George sighs, pushing at Harry’s wrist to move his hand away from between his legs. “I’m tired. And I have to pee. And you’re stuck in me. Can you just… shut up?”

The sleepy, satiated smile against George’s neck melts. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

George rearranges his elbow under his head and closes his eyes. Slowly, slowly Harry’s hand slithers off of George’s stomach and other than where they’re pressed together to keep the knot from pulling, Harry and George don’t touch at all.

As soon as Harry’s knot has gone down enough that George can wriggle free, he rolls away and drops his feet onto the carpet. There’s already a wet slide on the top of his thigh and he picks up the pyjama pants they’d dropped on the floor and hops into them even on his way to the bathroom.

“I’m showering,” he calls, without looking back at the bed. “Don’t follow me. I still have to pee.”

He shuts the bathroom door.

And punches it. His knuckles hit the wood with a satisfying crunch that he knows, with a dull sense of pride, will hurt like a fucker in a few minutes. He’s definitely hurt his knuckles more than he’s hurt the door.

“Are you okay?” calls Harry’s voice. “I heard a thud.”

“ _I’m great_.”

George doesn’t look in the mirror as he pushes the pants back down again and peels out of his shirt. It’s damp with Harry’s sweat. The smell is so pervasive that George balls it up and opens the bathroom door just long enough to throw it into the main room. He turns the shower on and twists the head until the water comes down in a stream so tight he’s slightly worried it may drill a hole through his head. It doesn’t, though, and it pounds out the angry tension balls in his muscles exactly how he’d hoped.

He scrubs himself down with Jaymi’s soap again because it smells the strongest, blushes dark red as he scoops Harry’s come out of his body, and sits on the shower floor once it’s all washed down the drain.

What is he even doing here?

He has dress rehearsals tomorrow. For the X Factor. Their song is cheesy, and he has to wear half-leather trousers. They’re not even whole-leather. He hasn’t played his guitar live in months. And instead he’s sitting in his shower, stewing about how fucking stupid Alphas are, while Harry goddamn Styles, from a (hopefully) rival boy band, sits naked in his bed and wants to—thinks that it’s _good_ and _meaningful_ and _pretty_ when George is in pain because the Heat is terrible and painful and having another Alpha knot him once, which already makes George want to gag, is _not anything the same_. And there’s no way to explain it. There’s no way to explain how it feels to have your entire body betray you, betray itself, override your own brain and just _need_ until it hurts whether you have or don’t have. There’s no way to explain that it makes people treat you like you’re stupid or less valid or less capable of rationale just because for a week a month, your traitorous body wants to make unnecessary babies for stupid Alphas who turn right around again and treat you like it’s something special, that your body wants to be bred. It isn’t special. All omegas have Heat. Any Alpha can breed them. Even betas can breed them. Being physically capable of mating isn’t _special_ or a _connection_ and it’s not—

It isn’t gorgeous.

And it’s not amazing.

And George can never, never get away from it. Because he’s Bonded to Harry and he has to keep him. He has to keep putting up with Harry because he made a rash choice and he trusted someone he shouldn’t, apparently, in Caroline and he is absolutely not crying in his shower while Harry waits in his bed outside because that would be too pathetic for words.

And he doesn’t wish, at all, that he could have thought it’d be alright to miss the show. And maybe they’d be sent home, but he could just… go back to his life. In his crowded house, with a dull job where he’ll never get anywhere. But he’d have his family, and he’d have Tony, and he’d have Parisa. 

He’d also have his Heat.

It’d rule his life either way. And that’s really what Harry can’t possibly understand, and it’s definitely what George is really (not) crying about. George rests his head against the cool tile of the shower wall and waits for the buzz of bees storming around in his stomach to die off. 

The water goes cold before the last bee is gone.

George stands, rubbing at the red line across his kneecap, and shuts off the water. He takes a long time to dry himself, getting between every toe and all of his fingers and towel-scrubbing his hair until it’s almost fully dry. The fog’s melted off the mirror by the time he wraps every towel in the suite around himself so that nothing is showing.

The room isn’t dark anymore when George opens the bathroom door. Harry’s turned the bedside light on again and is sitting, awake, propped up by pillows on one side of the bed. He’s playing with an iPad. He’s playing with an iPad, naked, in George’s bed.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks quietly, looking up. “I heard—it sounded like… maybe you weren’t alright. I thought about going in to check on you, but the door was locked.”

“Yeah, I locked it because I didn’t want you to come in,” George says. “I’m fine. I’m going to put on pyjamas and go to sleep now.”

“Did you want tea or anything? To help you sleep?” Harry gets halfway out of bed. The blankets melt from the side of one lean, pale hip.

“No, I’m fine,” George says. “I have a really long, really important weekend coming up. I’m gonna sleep. You can stay or leave… I don’t care.”

“You’ll sleep better if I stay,” Harry whispers. “What with the Bond settling.”

George closes his eyes. He yanks a pair of boxers out of his drawer without looking. Across the drawer are Jaymi’s t-shirts; he won’t mind. He keeps stealing George’s pants anyway. “Fine. Go ahead and stay. D’you want underwear? You didn’t wear any.”

“Sure.” The bed crinkles as Harry sits again. “If you want.”

“I do.” George lobs a pair of boxers over his shoulder. “I don’t—sleeping naked is weird. Anyone could walk in and see… things.”

Harry takes the boxers and wriggles around under the covers until they’re on. George pulls on his own under his towel, adds a t-shirt, then walks the towel back to the bathroom. He brushes his teeth until he’s finished the alphabet three times and Genesis 1:1 twice. His gums are bleeding a little.

When he gets back to the bedroom, the light is off again and Harry’s nestled down into the pillows, his face buried in his arms. His shoulders are broad and taper steadily into a sharp cut of muscle, defined at his narrow waist right where the sheets pool over his flat bum and long, long legs.

George refuses to think it makes a pretty picture against the sheets. It doesn’t. He’s just a giant, a big, awful, ignorant, mouthy giant who likes fruit entirely too much and doesn’t understand anything and smells like a roaring fireplace that George just wants to curl up alongside and sleep without having to worry that it may burn the house down.

Instead, he just curls up alongside Harry the boy. And Harry rolls over onto his side so that George can fit against him.

The last bees finally disappear when Harry closes his arms around George’s waist.

And that’s enough that George doesn’t fall asleep for a long, long time.

The next morning, Jaymi shakes George awake. 

“We have to get going,” he says as George blinks and grumbles, tucking closer again to the good-smelling heater he’s sleeping alongside. Which also grumbles and rolls over to look up blearily at Jaymi. “Georgie, up, up, up. We have to rehearse, and then we have to get final fittings, and then we’re going to be Ella’s practice audience.”

George sits up and just behind him, he can feel Harry stretch, too. His back cracks all the way down as he twists, and George wrinkles his nose. 

“Yeah,” George croaks. “I’m coming. I showered last night and they’ll wash my hair for me, right?”

Jaymi rolls his eyes. “Yeah, they will. Come on.”

“Yay,” George cheers sleepily. “That’s the best part. I love when Jamie washes my hair.”

“I know,” Jaymi cajoles. “Come on, we’re getting a quick breakfast with Josh and JJ and Jahmene and then, yes, we will pick up coffees on the way to the studio. Up, up, up, up.” 

“God, Jaymi, I can walk myself to the dresser.”

“Nope,” Jaymi says. “Not quickly enough. Move that little bum, trousers on.”

“Erm—” Harry starts. “Should I…?”

“Why don’t you have breakfast with Caroline?” George asks coolly. “And then I’ll just talk to you later. Busy weekend.” He pulls a shirt over his head and follows Jaymi to the door. He pauses at the jamb when a slow-burning elastic stretch in gut tugs at him, insistent, prodding. He looks back at Harry, still sitting in George’s bed, arms around the pillow where George’s head had rested all night. George looks down at his feet. “I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for coming when I texted.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. His voice is brittle. “Anytime.”

George steps through the door and peeks around the frame. “There are flannels. The door will lock behind you when you leave.”

They’re in the elevator before, at the same moment, Jaymi asks, “Rough night?” and George mutters _don’t_.

It’s a trying morning for everyone, not just George: Rylan and Lucy caused a drunken scene in the street last night (one George thinks he actually would rather have liked to have seen, had he not been otherwise occupied, if he’s honest) and the Corinthia’s management are peeved with ITV for letting the lot of them stay. Apparently among their grievances, besides the bare arses, was the “pervasive and disruptive omega scent in the private dining room and fourth floor corridor,” for which George and Josh are given a dressing down although there’s nothing they could be doing differently and nothing that is either of their faults. So Richard and Mark and Lisa are all peevish with everyone before they even begin practicing the light cues—which is the most tedious thing in the world. Christopher Maloney throws a fit when his dancers arrive and one is an omega; he accuses Brian of trying to sabotage his performance with _debris on the stage_. The entire cast and crew, George and Josh and the dancer included, are given a second dressing-down on the basis of harassment. They’re an hour behind schedule, Lucy is still hung over, Rylan is weeping again on James’ shoulder, and then the news breaks that the Sun have exposed Jahmene’s family tragedy as a scandal.

George keeps a bit closer to Josh and to Jaymi and to Ella for the rest of the day. He feels wrung out. And very small.

While James’ production is being lit in red and black silhouette, Union J are allowed to sneak off for lunch or a kip or, in Josh and JJ’s case, for JJ to coo in Josh’s ears and console him about the blame being laid on him and on George for scent in the corridor. Jaymi collapses on his face in one of the cushy greenroom chairs to take advantage of their thirty minutes.

So George wanders alone to the commissary. He keeps close to the cinderblock wall and trails his fingers along its bumps. He’s probably leaving _satsuma_ omega smell everywhere.

He hopes it makes them sick with its cloying sour. 

He’s picking his way through a half-congealed jam breakfast bun when the doors open and a very familiar scent wafts into the room. Harry doesn’t come with it, though, when George’s head snaps up. George sighs and grits his teeth. He tries to look very, very interested in his bun and coffee. (He is pretty interested in the coffee. It’s good today, with extra caramel.

Caroline gives George a wincing little smile. “On a scale of one to ten, how angry are you with me today?”

“Seven,” George mutters. “No, five. It’s not your fault Harry’s a dick.”

“Is five too high for me to sit with you?”

George scoots over on the bench even though there’s plenty of room. “Sit wherever you like.”

“Harry knows, now, that what he said was incredibly misguided,” Caroline says, sitting down next to George. “What we had… it was nothing like what you go through. He thought he was saying something kind.”

“Okay,” says George. “And?”

“And,” Caroline continues, resting her hand on George’s shoulder, “I’m sorry that I didn’t explain that to him at the time. I know you were upset. He told me you seemed… pretty shattered.”

“I wasn’t _shattered_ ,” George says. “I was pissed off.”

“Right,” Caroline agrees. “That, too.”

She rubs his shoulder lightly and gives him a glowing, small, apologetic smile. Her fingers move from his shoulder up to the nape of his neck, where she scritch-scritch-scritches through his hair. It feels good, much better than the nagging and frustration of the morning, and George melts a little to let her reach more easily.

“Are you sure you were only angry?”

“Yeah,” George says. “It was offensive. I was offended. It made me angry. With offense.”

“Right,” Caroline says slowly, “Except… he also might have mentioned that you were sobbing in the shower.”

George just groans and rests his face in his hands, elbows on his knees for balance. “I wasn’t _sobbing in the shower_ , that sounds pathetic. I just cried a bit underwater.”

“George,” Caroline says softly, brushing her fingers through his hair where his head is rested on her shoulder, “If something is really, really wrong, you have to talk to Harry about it. He won’t just... he can feel what you’re feeling, but that doesn’t mean he can just... fix it. Being Bonded doesn’t solve all of your problems.”

“I didn’t expect it to,” George says roughly. “I knew it’d make them worse.”

Caroline’s hand stills on George’s head. She lets it fall, coursing gently over the knobbles at the back of his neck and down his spine until her arm just only loosely draped around his waist. “It shouldn’t do that, either. Please, please, tell Harry if you feel like he’s making things worse for you. Or tell me. Tell Ella. Tell someone, George, if you really feel... that unhappy.”

“I feel the same,” George mutters. “I feel the same as I always did, except my stupid body wants to be around Harry and my brain doesn’t want to be around his stupid mouth.”

“He didn’t realize,” Caroline sighs. “He’s trying really hard. He just thought... it’d be easier.”

“What would?” George asks. “He thought what would be easier? He got into my pants easily enough. And it’s not like I can just leave him now, can I, unless a spotlight falls on me tomorrow and I die or something.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Caroline says sharply. 

“I’m not going to kill myself with a spotlight,” George says. “Waste of a good spotlight.”

“Stop it, George,” Caroline sits up, taking her arm back. “It would kill Harry, you know, if something happened to you. It would--it’s the worst thing, it’s the very lowest feeling to be an Alpha and lose your omega.”

“It can’t be worse than being an omega losing an Alpha,” George says stiffly. “Having to go back to the Heat and nothing can stop it.”

“Turning thirty-five stops it,” Caroline says flatly. “Turning thirty-five stops the Heat, whether you have an Alpha or not. I’ll have to let you know in two years if turning thirty-five stops the pain from losing your omega, too, but at this point I don’t think it will.”

George is silent at that, and so is the room, the walls are ringing with it in a place that George has never associated with quiet before now. Caroline doesn’t look as though she meant to say as much as she had, a little flustered and pale under her tan makeup and her black-lined eyes blinking fast and wet in an attempt to keep dry. She stretches one small hand out in front of her and meticulously scrutinizes her elaborate new manicure.

“There’s a chip already,” she mutters, and brings her hand close to hold.

“I didn’t... I’m sorry,” George says. “I thought you’d never Bonded; I remember seeing you play Bubbles and you weren’t, you didn’t seem, I thought you’d never Bonded.”

“I already wasn’t anymore by then,” Caroline says. She keeps holding her own hand. “Not for--since I was your age. Or, between yours and Harry’s.”

It’s something George has never really considered, an Alpha losing their omega. He’d always somehow assumed that they died together, like that Shakespeare play, the omega taking up her dagger to stab herself in the stomach and bleed out alongside her poisoned Alpha, _o happy dagger, this is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die_. Or maybe less dramatically of old age or something. But he’d never really thought about the idea of dying separately, even though it must happen. He’s heard of omegas killing themselves or betas killing each other or betas killing omegas for stealing their Alphas away, but he’d never really thought about what happened to the other half of the Bond.

George bites the inside of his cheek. It’s still raw there, and tastes salt-sour. “What happened?”

“We were too young,” Caroline says. “We Bonded at fourteen. He was tall and had shaggy brown hair and long eyelashes and even though he was in that hormonal, awful stage for almost long as I ever knew him, you could just tell… he would have been really lovely. I thought he was lovely anyway. Big, sad eyes.” Her lips curve up. “We were friends our whole lives and I knew him really well and on a school retreat he came to me, completely desperate… rather like you did… and I loved him. I did. I do, still.

“And for a while it was good. Because it was easier for him. At school. But he was angry that I couldn’t solve everything for him. Especially when he was rejected from uni. Just flat-out; they didn’t do deferrals back then. That’s a new thing. And he could have waited for it, but he didn’t, and—doesn’t matter. He said it felt like his future had been written out by someone else and then ripped up and washed down a drain and if I couldn’t make him feel differently, then what was the point of me?”

George looks at his hands. He might think Harry is presumptuous and offensive and oddly obsessed with fruit.

But he doesn’t think Harry is pointless.

“And for a long time, I thought he was right, in the end,” Caroline says. “Because I couldn’t make him happy. I couldn’t change everything enough to make him happy, I couldn’t change anything that would make him happy. And that was all I wanted. That was all I ever wanted, was to make him happy however I could. And help him however I could. That was the point of me, as his Alpha. And that’s Harry’s point, as yours. Your change when you Bonded was physical, you… formed to the shape of him and your eggs won’t let anyone else’s sperm in; whatever. That’s just biology. An Alpha’s Bond is… psychological? 

“All Harry wants is to make you happy, George. He wants to take care of you. And I can see now that I fucked it up again, trying to take care of an omega and help them be happier and I thought I could change this for you. To help you stay in the show another week. But—”

“No, you did,” George says quickly. “I mean, I’ll be here tomorrow. That’s huge for me. All I wanted was to do the show, and now I can. And you did do that. And Harry, obviously. Harry more literally… did it.”

Caroline rolls her eyes and pinches his side lightly. “Rude.”

“Only a little,” George agrees. He rustles his head against Caroline’s shoulder again so that she’ll scratch his hair again. “I don’t… know how to be happy with a Bond. If I have one… well, _since_ I have one, I’d like to be? I just don’t—I never wanted one. Not ever. So I don’t know how to be happy with it yet. But I’m not _more sad_ or anything. I’m just the same. Except on the X Factor. That’s different. Good-different. Like a fish that swims in air. An air-fish would be good-different.”

Caroline huffs a half-laugh through her nose. “You are so bizarre.”

“I know,” George agrees. He nudges Caroline with his chin. “You can still be happy.”

“I know,” Caroline says. “I am, enough of the time. But being happy and alone is not the same as being happy with your Bond. It’s just not. It’s not that one is necessarily better than the other… what I liked what I had. And that’s what makes me feel the worst. I liked what we had. It made _me_ happy. And it made him so miserable he couldn’t stand it anymore.” Caroline measures George with her eyes. “And Harry’s afraid it’s the same for you.”

“No,” George promises. “It’s totally not. And I’ll tell him. It’s not that. I just… don’t understand him.”

“And he doesn’t understand you,” Caroline points out. “You’re allowed to be angry that he said such a stupid fucking—what was he even thinking telling you that? I hit him in the head for you, just so you know, if that makes you feel any less peeved with me.”

“It does.” George giggles. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Caroline says. She pats George’s cheek and stands. “It was honestly my pleasure.” She combs her fingers through his mussed hair one last time. “Are you alright if I leave you alone again?”

“I’ve my coffee,” George assures her. “You’re busy. I’m caffeinating. I’ll talk to you later.”

Caroline smiles and starts to go before George calls after her _thank you again, Caroline, for everything. Really_.

Once she’s gone, George takes out his mobile and, after a few minutes’ deliberation over a fresh coffee (and another jam bun, because by now they’ve all thawed through the middle) texts Harry, _Sorry I was a prat. Just nervous for the show. You should come. It’d be nice to have your expert X Factor boy band opinion after all. X_

He finishes his bun and debates whether his fingers are jittering too much for a third coffee when the reply comes. _You are not a prat. And I wouldn’t miss it .x_

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings** : Sexual content (slash [fingering, PiA, mentions of come]); graphic sexual dialogue; some slurs/in-world slut-shaming terms.

>   
> **Equal Franchise Suffrage Amendment  
>  HC Deb 20 May 1951 vol 252 cc2003-2104 2003**
> 
> § The following shall be substituted for Sub-section(1) of Section eight of the principal Act as amended by Section six of the Representation of the People (Equal Franchise) Act, 1948: "(1) Every person registered as Competent in the Electorate (Alpha citizens aged 18 or older, beta citizens aged 18 or older, omega citizens aged 21 or older and so Bonded to an Alpha citizen) as a Parliamentary elector for any constituency shall, while so registered (and, in the case of an omega, notwithstanding Bonding), be entitled to vote at an election of a member to serve in Parliament for that constituency, but a person, shall not vote at a General Election for more than one constituency."  
>  — The Solicitor-General.

***

George doesn’t see Harry again until after the show on Saturday, when he turns up at the cast do in the Corinthia bar. George can see him across the room whenever conversation with Ella and Jahmene and the J’s lulls, can sense him like a raw nerve that flares with toothache every time Harry looks up and George isn’t looking back.

But sometimes he is.

The attitude after a live show is chaotic, everyone’s nerves and exhilaration or despair running wild, everyone coated in a sheen of sweat from the lights and a slathering of makeup. Scents run thick in the air, and the first two weeks’ parties were havoc on George’s system as his body ran through and picked up the faint dull bitters and flowers of James and Lucy and Carolynne, back when she was here so briefly, and the heady full gusts of the Alphas, of JJ’s brush of chamomile hay wrapped around Josh’s slight citrus. And sugar. Sweet everywhere, coating everything like grit. It was saccharine, at least until George had some alcohol in him to dull his senses. Tonight, even with his head tucked into Jaymi’s neck to laugh at JJ’s horror in finding out what a walrus looks like, the Alpha scents are clouded.

It makes George wonder through the vodka whether this is what the world is like for them. For betas, too. 

Simple. A bit dull, if he’s completely honest, compared to the bombardment of sensations that it could be when he was all alone. The only sensation thrumming through him now is that awareness of Harry, the tinges of burnt leaves and frost on the air, the pull across the back of his neck in warm slides that makes him turn his head to make sure that Harry is still there. In the corner, laughing with Caroline over a drink that looks very pink and has an umbrella and cut fruit on the rim.

(Of course it does, George can’t help thinking. He doesn’t know that he’s ever seen Harry without fruit in his hand. Except during actual sex.)

The room is nearly empty before Harry approaches George. He’s holding a beer bottle out in front of him like a white flag.

“I’m really sorry,” Harry says in lieu of hello. “I have really big feet, see, and a habit of putting them in my mouth, basically.”

George ducks his head. “I should have told you why I was angry.”

“I should’ve known,” Harry says. “It’s not your fault you got mad when you had a right to.”

George nods. The room seems so quiet now, without a rustle and cheer of the audience and without the hum of the lights and the mics and without people all around, as everyone’s slowly faded off to bed, some in pairs like JJ and Josh and some alone, like little Ella, yawning and letting the wall guide her to the lifts. Jaymi is still here, but he’s moved to sit at a booth in the corner with James and Caroline and Olly Murs—not his own Olly—and George can pick his quiet voice away from the clinks of rinsing glasses and hush of the bar being wiped down at the end of the night. It’s nice to know that Jaymi is here, waiting for him so he doesn’t have to walk alone—he’ll always be grateful to Jaymi for being there for him the night he Bonded—but he doesn’t _need_ him. Jaymi tends to do more trying to push George back to Harry than anything else, anyway.

Harry looks a bit miserable, even under the pink-cheeked brightness that comes from being tipsy. He’s still standing with his toes and hands pointed together, shoulders round like he’s making himself small, eyes half-hidden behind his hair. 

George takes the drink. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” Harry says quietly. “I hope you like—I hope it’s the right one. I should’ve asked what you preferred.”

George takes a sip. It’s strong, but it’s good. “I don’t mind. Drink is drink, innit? It’s just nice getting served.” He pauses. “Erm, I know it’s late and you’re probably busy, and I have an early-ish call tomorrow, but. D’you want to come up for an hour? Or, erm.” George swallows and takes another sip of the drink before continuing. “Or, erm, you can spend the night again if you want. If you want to.”

Harry looks at George’s face, and it strikes George anew how close in height they really are, even though he feels so much smaller. He’s become used to looking down to see Jaymi and Josh and JJ that it seems strange to be able to look right at Harry, but he can. 

“I don’t know.” Harry reaches out to touch the back of George’s hand with two fingertips. “Every time I see you, I do something wrong.”

“That’s not—it’s only sort of true,” George protests. “And like, if you… if I don’t, if you don’t, we’ll never get it right if I keep not letting you try? Besides—” George giggles—“Caroline says she hit you in the head for me.”

“She did! And it hurt!” Harry agrees, rubbing the back of his head. “Coulda killed me. She’s got those talons.”

George keeps giggling, head bowed. It’s not that he doesn’t like Harry; he does, or he’d like to, it’s just that he doesn’t know yet that he likes liking Harry, or that it won’t… it’s a bit like how he feels about tigers. They’re beautiful to watch from a distance, through a television screen or the glass at a zoo, but he doesn’t want to be near one in real life because it could rip out his heart with its teeth.

And yet, somehow, it’d feel like a lie to say he didn’t want to touch one just to feel its fur.

It’s a balance, deciding whether it’s worth the risk of a bite. Especially because, with Harry, it does so keep hurting and failing and going wrong in one way or another. It could be worse, but it could also be better, and George thinks that right now they’re on the precipice that will determine which way they’ll go, because even though they’re stuck with each other for the next nearly-sixteen years, George is holding firm that he doesn’t owe Harry never-ending chances. (But, something twists in his gut, Harry doesn’t owe chances to George, either, and he can do something about George displeasing him—when George can’t. Not really. He’s _allowed_ to try, now, allowed to report if things are terrible and allowed to voice complaints freely, but the odds of it mattering are even lower than the odds of anyone other than Ella winning the X Factor this year.)

“She gave Ella and Rylan manicures the night we, we Bonded,” George offers. “Ella got bows, but Rylan just got glitter. No talons there.”

Harry gives George a bashful grin. “Have you got a manicure yet from Jamie? We always got them when we were on the show, but it wasn’t Jamie, but I’ve met Jamie once, because he knows Lou, and I was ‘round hers to see Lux—she’s a baby, do you know Lux? Anyway, we used to get manicures and I always quite liked them so long as it was clear. But once, Louis, he bites his nails a lot, he started biting them before the varnish dried and he got like clear varnish all over his lips. It was really funny.”

“I have, yeah,” George says, “But I don’t like the varnish smell. Jaymi got little stars on his thumbs last week, but I don’t think that’s my style.”

“Mine, neither,” Harry agrees. 

“Besides, I can’t have much fingernails to play guitar,” George says. “Wouldn’t work well.”

“Oh, that’s right, you do play,” Harry says, “I’d forgotten. You should on the show. They let James tonight, and usually Lucy, they should let you.”

“Yeah, maybe,” George agrees. “I’d love it.” He pauses. Across the room, Caroline and Olly Murs get up to leave, Caroline leaning down to get a hug from Jaymi before she goes. George looks back to Harry, who is still staring at him like a cat surveilling the world through his window. “Do… you play anything?”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m learning, slowly. I’m not great with rhythm.”

George nods. “Well, if you ever want, erm, like extra tutoring. I can, you know. I can rhythm okay.” He glances over at Jaymi, who gestures questioningly. George turns to Harry. He exhales a long breath, cool and cranberry-flavored across his tongue from all of the drinks. His muscles are all loose and he’s sleepy-skittering from the performance’s adrenaline finally leeching out of his system. “Are you coming up tonight?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods. George can’t read the look on his face, whether it’s hopeful or defeated itself. “Yeah, I’m coming up.”

That night, after they’re knotted together, Harry doesn’t say anything. Not at all. George knows he isn’t asleep, though, because the side of Harry’s thumb right where it creases with the nail keeps tracing lightly over George’s shirt. A few times, there’s a little huff of breath like Harry’s about to speak, but then—he doesn’t.

It’s sort of really boring. After ten minutes, George gets his laptop off the bedside table and scrolls through twitter one-handed as he lies on his side and waits for the knot to go down so he can slip off to take a shower before sleeping. He doesn’t actually reply to any tweets, seeing as it seems weird and somewhat heartless to respond to messages like _georgy ur so fit i luvvvvvie youuuuuu_ while there’s another person actually still inside his body. But he reads them, all the same. Most are perfectly nice, if a bit obsessive and a little inappropriate. Some aren’t. 

_Who let the #dams in #XFactor this year? #Cringe send em back to the bedroom where they belong!_  
 _I’m all for equality but it really shows in Union J who the Alphas are #itsthetalentedones #jaymi #XFactor_  
 _#dams should stick to they’re real talent #bendover #takeit #knotsluts #unionj #xfactor_

It’s not a majority of the tweets, or anything. Just less than half. And when he clicks over to Unreality TV for their review of the night’s performances, they do rank higher than Jade and Rylan and awful Christopher. (But that isn’t saying much, really, as people seem so biased against Rylan even though he’s good, and Jade was horrifically ill for a week and Christopher is… Christopher.)

George is better than that, and he knows it, and he’s better than Greg and Micky and Dan and okay, he might not be better than Jahmene and Lucy and Kye, maybe he isn’t, but _Jaymi is_. And Josh is. And it’s infuriating enough to make George feel a bit ill himself that people don’t think so just because Josh is an omega. 

The comments on the article offer another gem in the form of someone clearly attempting maturity and failing miserably—

_I don’t agree with that ranking atall! :\ District3 and Ella were by far the best! I’d rank them: 1) District 3 2) Ella 3) Kye 4) MK1 5) Jahmene 6) James 7) Lucy 8) Christopher 9) Jade 10) Rylan 11) Union J_

_It is an absolute joke that Rylan and Union J keep getting through. With Rylan, every time he goes through, a good act is sent home! Who the hell is voting for Christopher as well? But with Union J, it’s clear who is voting for them and it is not because they are a good act. There is a reason why it took until after the Wars for omegas to get a right to vote. They are too biased and don’t think clearly. It’s all false emotional connections with Union J and then also the perverts who want to have a chance on Harry Styles 2.0. Shame on Simon for pandering! Hopefully next year we are back to letting people through on talent instead of hormones!_

There’s a light cough from just behind George’s shoulder. 

“I don’t think that’s why you’re in the show,” Harry murmurs. “You really are good, George. You deserve to be here. Not, erm, not here like in bed, I mean here like—”

“I know what you mean,” George says curtly. “And I know we deserve to be here. But it’s not my choice, is it? If we go tomorrow, then—we do.”

“I don’t think you will,” Harry offers. “I really don’t. That Christopher is a fucking piece of work, isn’t he? He’s dreadful. He reminds me a bit of Wagner from my year only less fun. Actually, I think, if you took Wagner and put him in a centrifuge and it spit out two people, that’d be Rylan and Christopher, but I like the Rylan half.”

George snorts. It makes his muscles tighten briefly around where Harry’s just started softening down inside him and they both shiver. “I like the Rylan half, too. I don’t think he plans to Bond. Also, he knows all the words to Gangnam Style, even though he didn’t sing them on the show.”

“Is that a likeable quality?”

“I think so,” George says. “More than Christopher has, really. He knows… I don’t even know what he knows. Soft-shoe ballads, probably.”

Harry chuckles softly. He brushes his nose along the curve behind George’s neck, where it connects to his shoulder, and that makes George shiver, too. It’s a bit of a struggle to tamp down the frustration he feels at Harry’s constant small touches and—George had to bat Harry’s hands away from his groin a few times during, because Harry seemed full-on determined to touch George’s cock and he didn’t, he doesn’t, that’s not… there’s no reason for it, unless he’s in Heat, and he isn’t, so there’s no reason for that. 

(George thinks that eventually, too, Harry will get disgruntled with George’s refusal to take his shirt off, but that isn’t something George can help. He won’t do it for the fans, either, and rarely even does it for himself. Unless he’s bathing, there’s no good reason not to wear a shirt. If it’s hot, find an air conditioner for pete’s sake. And anyway, it’s nearly November.)

But George desperately, desperately, does not want to be what all of those tweeters and commenters and people on the street in Las Vegas think he is. He’s not doing this because he _likes_ it; he’s not one of those people. 

But—

He also doesn’t hate it. And he thinks he should, because he hates Heat with every fiber of his being and that’s all sex is good for, really, is relief during Heat. And relief, even, until Harry, was a relative term, because he’d come either way and either way, it hurt horribly and left him feeling raw and battered and used. The fact that it hasn’t been that way with Harry—he hasn’t had to come—is probably what’s making George feel a bit more charitable.

At least, it isn’t bad in all of the ways that George has been afraid of; Harry doesn’t hurt him or hit him or tie him up or keep him locked in a cage at the foot of his bed. He hasn’t tried to fuck George more than once in a night, hasn’t kept him from going to rehearsals or anything just to get bred. He hasn’t—hasn’t—there are a lot of things that George has read about Alphas making their omegas do that he hasn’t been asked to do. Mating with Harry. _Sex_ with Harry. Awkward swirly-hot feelings and the occasional annoying and errant erection aside, it isn’t so bad. 

As Harry keeps quietly nuzzling the back of George’s neck, though, those same twingey, curling feelings come back. It’s been happening… sort of a lot, tonight. It’s probably the alcohol, some strange reaction to having drunk vodka and then kissing Harry. George reaches behind himself to pinch Harry’s side lightly—but with warning.

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs. “I just, I’m sorry, I know I keep coming really quick. I thought I’d be better tonight. I want it to be good for you.”

“It was fine,” George says automatically. It was fine. He probably needs to start taking his tablets twice a day, though, because today he’d only had the usual one and he was wet by the time Harry tucked a finger inside. Harry had smiled against the curve of George’s shoulder. And George hates to be laughed at.

“Okay.” Harry sounds skeptical.

George twists a little—his hip is falling asleep, and his arm’s been asleep for ages—and feels Harry’s knot give way enough that he can slide free. “I’m gonna shower. Are you staying or going?”

“I was hoping to stay?”

George nods. “Okay. Can you ring Jaymi? His number is in my mobile. Let him know he can have his bed now if he’s still awake to want it.”

Harry nods. “I can, yeah. Erm, but,” he looks nervous, sheets pooled around his waist, “I sort of fancied a shower, too? And I thought maybe, like to conserve water, do you think we I could just hop in with you?”

George swallows.

“I don’t have to,” Harry adds quickly. “What’s one more penguin, you know? Or not penguins, I do like penguins. Remind me of Pingu. What’s one more creepy squid?”

George snorts. “Yeah, squids. Fuck ‘em. I think… I think it’d be best we shower separately. Do away with the lot of them.”

Harry gives him a thin smile, very big-eyed. Somehow after sex, he always looks like an oil painting of a person more than he does like a real living Alpha; eyes too big and hair in a halo. “It’s an environmental justice, really. Although calamari is good.”

George wrinkles his nose. “You’re mad. I’ve ended up with a madman for a Bond.” A blurt of slick drips onto the back of his thigh and George glows bright red. “I’mgoingtoshower.” He scampers off to the bathroom in four steps and locks the door behind him, stripping out of his shirt on his way to the cubicle and stepping in before the water’s even warm.

When he goes back out to the room, wrapped in towels from head to ankle, Jaymi is back and chatting amiably with Harry from bed to bed. Harry seems to be looking at the row of photos of Olly from Jaymi’s wallet as Jaymi tells him about wedding plans.

Harry looks up at George and smiles, gesturing with the pictures. “Have you seen these? Cute.”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re adorable,” George says, “Did Jaymi pay you to ask me so I’d have to say it _again_?” He winks at Jaymi before shuffling pyjama trousers on under his towel.

Jaymi throws a balled-up shirt at George’s head. It dramatically misses. “Shut up, George; I bet One Direction are bored of hearing about you.”

George’s head whips around. “Have you told people about me?”

Harry looks at his lap. “Not by name. I mentioned I Bonded, of course, to—to get a little time off for you. And Zayn knows that it’s someone Caroline found, so I think he suspects it’s you because… well, it’s either you or Josh and Josh isn’t my type.”

“And Josh is Bonded already.”

“And that,” Harry agrees. “But I thought… you haven’t really given me the impression that you wanted people to know.”

George shimmies into the shirt that landed on him, because it smelled clean enough. “I don’t know. I don’t want it to look like I’m… pandering for votes,” he says carefully, and he knows that Harry read that message, too, over his shoulder.

Harry gives George a sad little smile. “I figured. And I’d rather you get to win, or least get third. Not that I think any of the boys would say something to the press. I mean, Niall’s been Bonded for ages and no one knows. And, you know. We’re good at keeping secrets that actually matter, it’s just most things don’t really matter when all you do is travel around singing about what makes people beautiful.”

George tries to giggle, because it’ll seem strange if he doesn’t. But really, even though it sounds silly, traveling around singing about stupid things like love would be all that matters to him.

Jaymi knows him well enough by now that he can tell the laughter isn’t quite real. “Well,” he says, “I’m proper knackered. Lights out, Georgie?”

George nods. “Yeah, thanks.” He shakes his hair out one more time and pulls back the sheets to climb into bed. Harry put pants on before Jaymi got back to the room, thank goodness, but without a shower, he still smells like their mating.

It stirs that tingling feeling in George’s gut right back up again. Harry rolls over and tucks an arm loosely around George’s waist, whispering, _this alright?_

George exhales into the dark. “Yeah. ‘S’alright. Night.”

In the morning, George wakes to the mattress shifting as Harry moves to get out of bed. It’s still only half-light, but that doesn’t mean much—it might be ten minutes to call time anyway, since the sun rises late in the year now that it’s nearly winter and they have to leave so early to rehearse the group singing numbers. 

“Sorry,” Harry whispers when he sees George’s half-open eyes. “Just… go back to sleep.”

“S’wrong?” George mumbles, reaching a hand out—whether to get more blankets or to touch Harry for reassurance, he doesn’t know. It feels different, still, to have Harry further away, and it was the separation of them that woke George with a little tug on the insides of his bones. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, and leans down to slowly—slowly—tentatively—kiss the side of George’s face, just beside his sleepy eyes. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

George doesn’t, though, at first because he’s watching Harry mince his way to the bathroom in tiny tip-toed steps and he notices the reason that Harry’s left the bed in the middle of the night. He must have realized more than George thought the other morning when it was George who sneaked his way to the bathroom so that Harry wouldn’t notice he was hard, because now, it’s Harry’s turn. 

The light flicks on in a stripe beneath the bathroom door, but there’s just silence (besides Jaymi’s usual sleepy snuffling).

Why did Harry get out of bed?

The world tilts on its axis, so much that George actually grasps onto the mattress cover, because it—this doesn’t make sense?

Harry is an Alpha, and George already knows that he gets hard, because he’s felt it, and he knows that Harry likes mating with him because he’s said so in so many words. He’s Alpha with an omega. And he got out of bed even though his omega was in that bed, with him. He told George to go back to sleep. He didn’t try to—he didn’t make George _do anything_ about it. That doesn’t fit with anything George knows; internet posters discussing in locked communities about how to best cope with being woken in the night by a knot or having to wake up and service their Bond. _He told George to go back to sleep_.

Was it because of Jaymi?

George turns his head to look across the room at the sleeping, snoring lump of Jaymi in the other bed, but he’s turned away. 

So that might not be it. From everything he’s seen in the papers, Harry isn’t _shy_ about sex.

So… why?

After only a few minutes, the light clicks off and George quickly rolls over again, closing his eyes to feign sleep. For whatever reason Harry did it, George is grateful and doesn’t want to squander that by revealing that he hasn’t listened to Harry’s request for him to _go back to sleep_.

The bed dips as Harry slips back under the covers.

He doesn’t cuddle up to George again, though, and the wait for his arm stretches out lick ticks on a clock.

Finally, George, eyes opened only to slits, scoots over and curls around Harry, instead, pretending with a wriggle that he’s just moving in his sleep.

Harry’s chest trembles lightly under George’s arm. There’s a pause, and then Harry’s burying his face into George’s hair. His lips press lightly into the top of George’s head. Harry smells stronger in sleep, but George can detect his own scent on Harry still, too, sans shower, and he has to admit that it’s nice—jam on toast, a bit, like Caroline said, but it’s different all tucked into Harry’s neck like this, more like some kind of expensive French pastry dripping in butter and oozing with exotic fruit in bright colors that flashes like the under-feathers on a bird. Somehow, sleepily, half in a dream, George thinks that it might feel that way, too, when that swirling under his ribs begins again. Bright colors, sweetness, the ruffle of soft feathers, things that grow and hearts beating under hollow bones.

He doesn’t have a name for that feeling.

A few hours later, they’re roused by their alarm and Harry heads off to do whatever it is that already-popstars do while George and Jaymi stumble off blearily to hair-and-makeup. Josh looks under-the-weather when they arrive, and JJ keeps close to him, lashing out with surprising ferocity when Christopher or any of the PA’s who’ve made comments against Josh- or George’s presence in the show come close. George keeps dozing in the chair while Jamie trims and curls his hair, but he likes seeing JJ taking care of Josh, when usually it seems like he mostly just bumbles along. It’s sort of sweet, in a JJ-kind of way, when he calls Christopher a ‘bloody walrus’ and means it as a terrific insult.

(It sort of is, George has to admit. And it also fits Christopher oddly well. A walrus. A big clumsy thing sometimes made to do tricks at sea-parks and such, but no one’s favorite attraction.)

The show goes on, and the first of Louis Walsh’s Groups gets the ax. George will miss Charlie and Sim, but as usual after a show… he’s just glad that he isn’t one of the people leaving for home. It’s selfish, a thought that niggles at him late at night on Sundays after he’s tucked back into his swanky Corinthia bed, but it’s a selfishness that he doesn’t actually mind getting to feel. He’s doing what he set out to do. And this particular night, this October 20, feels like an incredible coup, like he’s cheated nature, like he’s cheated God, like he’s cheated everyone who ever told him that he would live in Clevedon forever and end up either alone with a hundred cats or Bonded and birthing ten children. He won’t. He lives in London, and he’ll get to sing. At least for another week.

If he’s honest, though, with the hug Harry gave him in congratulations after the show, he will probably get to stay. He’d never let Harry just _get_ him a record deal, but if Harry were to want to introduce Union J to Simon Cowell, well, then, George wouldn’t protest much. Some, for the appearances. But not much.

That night, Jaymi heads back to Luton to celebrate on his own with Olly, so George and Harry have the room to themselves.

“Congratulations,” Harry says, a broad, easy grin on his face. His hands are in his back pockets, cocking his hips out, and all George can think of is how big Harry is when he’s hard and pressed flat up against his stomach. “You made it through!”

“Thank you,” George says. He sits down on the edge of the bed and bites his lip. “That’s—I never could have even done the show this week if you hadn’t agreed to come down Wednesday and Bond with me, and I don’t know… I don’t know why you agreed to that, but it doesn’t matter, I guess, because… thank you.”

Harry just shrugs, and George watches his body shift. “I Bonded with you ‘cause I wanted to. It’s not hard to understand. But you’re welcome, even though you guys did all the work.”

“Yeah, but, you made me able to do it,” George says. “Not that… whatever. Just thanks.”

Harry nods. There’s a pause, and then George shifts back on the bed. “Don’t you want to join me?”

“I can, yeah,” Harry says softly. He toes out of his shoes and walks over to the bed, settling down beside George. “Are you sure you want to be up here with me, and not out celebrating with Josh and JJ and Ella?”

“Ella’s with her parents,” George says. “And Josh is ill, so JJ’s biting everyone’s head off.” Harry doesn’t look wholly convinced. “I want to be here with you.”

Harry smiles. “Okay. Good. Erm, did you want to like—I’m guessing you just want to fuck again and then that’s it? Facing away, shirt on, lights off, usual?”

George bites his lip. “Is that really so bad?”

“It’s not bad,” Harry sighs. “It’s just hard to tell if you’re enjoying it that way. And you’re fit; I… it’d be nice to see you.”

“Oh,” George says. “Well, we can leave the light on. If it’s that important to you. I don’t like taking my shirt off, even by myself. I’m like Tobias from Arrested Development, except not with cut-offs.”

“You’re a nevernude?”

“Yeah,” George says, and they both giggle. “Not a leather daddy.”

Harry barks again at that, the broad seal-laugh that makes George laugh, and today it reminds him of a walrus which reminds him of JJ and he laughs even harder, flopping down onto the mattress and letting Harry fall beside him, perched half-over George so they’re laughing face-to-face, jubilant.

George is still laughing when Harry leans down to kiss him, hot and slick and enough to start the fluttering up fast under George’s ribs, enough that he slides his hands up over Harry’s arms and anchors himself on Harry’s broad shoulders. He does like kissing Harry, itchy tingling feeling notwithstanding; the steady, sturdy bulk of Harry above him and the sweet taste of his mouth soothing George even as it stirs him up. 

Harry shifts over so that he’s atop George again, grinding his hips down. He sighs George’s name against his mouth and slowly, slowly slides one hand up inside George’s t-shirt.

George whimpers when Harry’s thumb brushes over his nipple. Harry smiles against George’s mouth and does it again, circling the pad of his finger over the little nub as it hardens up under his touch. That—that—that triples the hot flush, that’s something he doesn’t, that’s a Heat feeling, makes the space between his legs throb once before he jerks back, away from Harry’s mouth. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Harry asks softly. His hand is still rested beneath George’s shirt, but he’s just lightly tracing over George’s navel now instead of anything—sensitive. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

“I dunno,” George mutters, wriggling a bit. He’s wet again, even with the tablets. It’s making his pants sticky. “Just… don’t. Please?”

“Okay,” Harry whispers. “Sorry. Just kissing for now, then.”

But George is distracted now, measuring how he feels, taking stock of his heartbeats and the scenting down below and the rushing of blood through his veins as he tries to stymy the flush spreading through him because it’s scary, and he’s getting hard again as Harry gently rocks up against him, his own cock growing and thickening and his autumn-leaf Alpha smell closing in over George like liquid. 

“Come on, Georgie,” Harry murmurs, and his lips slide from George’s mouth to his neck, kissing just over the vein to make him shudder. “Please, please tell me how to make it good for you. How to feel good.”

George’s heart is racing.

Harry’s lips are soft.

His cock is still insisting at George’s, too, and his hand beneath George’s shirt is gentle and persuasive on the pale skin of George’s belly. George whimpers again as he instinctively spreads his legs wider so that Harry can fit between them, and Harry shifts even as he keeps sucking at George’s neck. 

It’s scary, thinking that someone else can affect his body like this. It doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel—it’s not _bad_. It doesn’t hurt and it doesn’t make him feel ill, but it takes his breath and makes him feel hot and it’s scary.

George pushes at Harry’s shoulders. “Come on, let me roll over.”

Harry looks a little put out. “Are you ever going to let me look at you again? Like the first time?”

George shrugs as he unfastens his jeans and pushes them down enough that he can wriggle out of them and flip over onto his belly before Harry has a chance to notice that he’s halfway hard and—and laugh at him. Or judge him. “I dunno. Maybe. Someday. Not tonight. It’s more comfortable this way, isn’t it? How you’re supposed to do it.”

There’s a little sound as Harry shinnies out of his clothes, and then his hands are at George’s waist, silently asking before he starts to pull George’s pants over the round of his bum. The elastic at the front catches on George’s stupid little cock and he hisses through his teeth, hunching in over himself.

“I don’t think there’s a ‘supposed to,’” Harry hedges. He kisses the base of George’s spine. “Just… as long as it feels good, yeah, then it’s right. Basically.”

George makes a noncommittal little noise. “Well, just, you know. Get in there and it’ll be good. Fine. Gine, if you want. Not food. That’d be weird, wouldn’t it? Food in the bed. Yuck.”

Harry snorts and two fingertips circle lightly over George’s rim. “You’re weird, George.” There’s a thick silence as he slides the fingers inside and curls them once; George chokes down a small broken sound. “You’re really wet today. Like before.”

“It’s not Heat,” George assures him. “Doesn’t work that way.”

The bed rocks a little as Harry knees closer until his thighs bracket George’s. “I know.” The head of his dick slides over George’s rim once, twice, coating itself in wet, and it feels—George doesn’t know how it feels. Anticipatory. Shivery, smooth. It jolts through George with that same birds’ wing feeling.

“I know,” Harry murmurs. “It’s just nice to know I’m doing better.”

He slides in easily, deep enough that George grunts and Harry’s hips are pressed up against George’s bum. Harry sighs, folding himself over George’s back, one hand tucked up into the front of George’s t-shirt again to rest on his belly. This time, he uses it on George’s front and his other hand on the side of George’s hip to move him in little twisting adjustments with every thrust so that his cock presses differently into George with every movement, making him squeak with surprise and clench and then—

“ _Oh_ ,” George huffs as all of the breath’s knocked out of him, everything rushing to condense into a single point inside him right where the fat head of Harry’s cock drags on every movement. “What—what’s—hap-happening?”

“Issat good?” Harry slurs, sounding breathless himself, holding George close as he slides in and out of his body. “Your heart’s racing.”

The hand on George’s belly is too low, too low, too close to the tops of his thighs, if Harry doesn’t move it, then he’s gonna feel—George is struggling to keep himself from getting hard, even more than before, trying to crush his mind with thoughts of terrible things like snails and old crusts and moths; moths, that works, think of moths. Creepy little pipe-cleaner faces and leaving bits of dust everywhere. The Industrial Revolution. Creepy Victorian London. 

It’s not working. Matter over mind; isn’t that how it always happens, Alphas and omegas. The Alphas matter and the omegas mind.

There’s a flash of heat and it feels like a flash of Heat, a thrumming bright vibration coiling in George and waiting to burst in his pores, in his muscles. His toes curl.

“You gonna come this time?” Harry breathes, his fingers moving the barest inch closer between George’s legs. _He’s going to feel that he’s hard. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t._ “You smell so good, you’re wet, George, I just—I just want it to be good for you, please.”

Harry’s rhythm is getting uneven, sharp syncopated thrusts all directly exactly at the place inside that George has never in his life known was there and for good reason, it’s dangerous, like a button to turn on Heat and wet and scent and _mortification_. Harry’s going to knot and they’ll be stuck together and Harry will know that George’s body likes this and he’ll think… things. _#bendover #takeit #knotsluts #unionj_

“Don’t—don’t, don’t,” George stutters, grabbing Harry’s wrist and pulling his hand away. “Don’t touch.”

“Too sensitive?” Harry asks. He kisses the back of George’s shoulder and keeps moving. 

“Yeah,” George grits out. “Sure. Yeah, just don’t touch and just—it’s good, it’s fine, I’m done, just knot.”

Harry, of all things, _laughs_. Bright and startled and delighted. George knows that if he could see him, Harry’s eyes would be light. “Finally. I’m really proud, actually,” Harry laughs, then groans and drops his head against George’s shoulder blade to push in deep and wet spurts and his knot flares out, keeping them together. He shudders, panting on George’s back. “I’m so—glad I’m figuring you out.”

George swallows. He isn’t hard anymore, not at that. “Yeah. Me, too.” His thighs are still shaky. “Can you help me, like, lie down and stuff? Or d’you need a minute?” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sorry.” Harry scoops his arm under George’s belly again for support and they roll into their sides, each lifting an arm to arrange the pillows under their heads. Harry kisses George’s hair. “I think it’ll just keep getting better from here, George. I think it’s good. And now I’m gonna keep my mouth shut ‘cause I keep saying dumb things that make you mad at me when I’m rambly after coming.”

George snorts. That’s true, at least. And the rest—what Harry doesn’t know won’t hurt either of them. There’s an odd hollow feeling in the base of George’s gut, like he’d nearly had something and it was torn away before he’d finished reading through it. He doesn’t know what that’s about, but they’re content and quiet and he can hear Harry’s breath already beginning to even out into dozy, sleepy breath just behind him.

It’s fine.

They’re finally happy.

George watches YouTube videos about funny animals until Harry’s knot’s gone down and he can slip away for a shower, leaving Harry snoring in his bed.

The next morning, Harry’s gone by the time George wakes, and it’s strange. There’s a sheet of paper from the hotel notepad stuck to his forehead as well—also strange—that just says, _Popstar things. I’ll be by tonight when there’s time. Eat some grapes! .x_ George rolls his eyes, but stretches, relishing the space to move without whacking into another person. The pillow smells like Harry, though, and when he presses his face into it, there’s a ghost of feeling all through his chest. This one, he recognizes, and it’s strange to put a name to it.

He misses Harry, misses waking with him. After less than a week.

And that’s scary in a wholly different way.

This way, though, is easier to ignore, so George chooses to. He gets up, stretches out his muscles, and takes a shower hot enough to burn all of the shivers out of his blood.

Ella has already left to have a girls’ day with Lucy and Jade and Tulisa, Jaymi is headed back from Luton, and the rest of the J’s are still upstairs. George fixes himself a solitary bowl of cereal and a painstaking cup of coffee. 

This might be the first breakfast he’s ever really had alone. He went from his mum’s house to his dad’s and then to London and Las Vegas with Union J. He hasn’t gone many places alone at all, actually, being ferried everywhere by betas or, now, Alphas, to make sure that he’s safe. 

It’s rather nice, actually to sit alone spread out in a booth with his feet up, crunching through Optivita. Or well, it’s nice until it’s rather dull, at which point he starts scrolling through Twitter again on his mobile and ponders a second bowl of cereal.

Josh and JJ finally trod into the room after George has decided yes, another bowl of cereal is just the thing. JJ looks typical for the morning, unshaven and flat-haired and unerringly cheerful, even as Josh grumbles alongside him with his hands running over both sides of his quiff to make sure it’s on evenly. JJ has an arm around Josh’s waist and seems to be reassuring him that his hair is as immovable as ever. It reminds George of Ross on _Friends_ ; _his hair hasn’t moved since 1996_. He imagines Josh owning a pet monkey, and it’s surprisingly easy. He snorts at the image as he joins them at the table again.

Josh has his face buried in JJ’s neck. “I’m tired.”

“I know, babe. Eat some cereal.” JJ scoops up some oatmeal with a spoon. “Choo-choo, the train is coming.”

Josh levels JJ with an impressively unimpressed look. “Do not.”

“It works on my sister.”

“Your sister is about seven,” Josh sighs. “I am not seven.”

“Good,” George says. “That’d be gross.”

Josh and JJ both wrinkle their noses at him. Josh grudgingly accepts the bowl of cereal and takes a bite. While there’s still milk dripping from his lip, JJ leans over and kisses him. “Good Josh.”

Josh rolls his eyes while George giggles. “Yeah, well, you do like when I have a drippy face.”

 _Ugh._ And that’s the end of the cereal and milk. George drops his spoon into the milk with a _clink_ and pushes it away. 

Josh doesn’t seem bothered at all, happily munching on cereal and giving JJ the googly eyes. His googly eyes are very wide and very blue. Secretly, George thinks, that he doesn’t really see it, whatever it is that Josh sees in JJ. He knows that JJ is a perfectly good-looking Alpha, and his ab muscles are almost unrealistic they’re so good, and at least the tattoos he’s littered with make, relatively, good sense (even if Josh says that one of them is misspelt). He has pleasant brown eyes and smoky eyelashes and a nice enough cut to his jaw. He’s a very handsome man.

But he isn’t Harry. And George knew that, logically, because of course Harry is Harry, but it’s clearer now than it used to be that JJ just… isn’t him. It could just be because of Josh that JJ doesn’t make George feel anything in particular at the morning softness of his Alpha scent, all hay and candy apples. It’s there. It’s not unpleasant. But it doesn’t make George feel anything, doesn’t put images in his head of skin and safety and sleeplessness. Mostly it makes George think of horses. And it’s not like he doesn’t like horses, he just doesn’t like horses. At least not as much as JJ. Probably, Josh, too. 

George keeps watching them all through breakfast and their ride over to Louis Walsh’s office. The van is cramped, even with MK1 gone, because Greg and Micky and Dan refuse to share space with George or Josh, claiming that they _reek and it’s too early for omega shit_. (That’s just fine with George. He doesn’t want to share their seat, anyway.) Josh sits perched on JJ’s lap on one window and Jaymi’s claimed the other because he gets carsick (and airsick and seasick and trainsick, which George didn’t even think was a thing) so George is stuck in the middle. He can hear JJ murmuring things in Josh’s ear that make him—but not Josh or JJ or even Jaymi, who _must_ be able to hear—blush. 

He can’t imagine Harry saying any of that to him and having anything happen besides spontaneous embarrassed combustion.

Then again, he can’t imagine _doing_ any of that with Harry, either. He hopes that isn’t what Harry’s expecting, he does suspect that what Harry wants and what Josh and JJ, who thought they were Bonded for a whole month before they actually were because they were so incredibly drunk, want are different things.

He hopes.

He had drunk a bit before last night, and last night was—Harry was different. The way he moved, the way he smelled, his whispers in George’s ear. 

George shifts and flicks Josh’s ear next to him. “Oi, stop it.”

“Stop what, little Georgie?” Josh asks. He prods at one of George’s red cheeks. “Are you missing your Alpha? Or are we embarrassing you again, Catholic school boy?”

“You’re embarrassing yourselves,” George sniffs. “And I’m not in school anymore.”

“That’s true,” Josh says, “You’re getting shagged by a popstar instead. I bet he’s changed your whole education.”

George flicks him again. “Shut up!”

Josh flicks George back. “Stop flicking me! That hurts my ear.”

“You are such a baby,” George harrumphs, slapping at Josh’s hand.

“Ow! That hurt my thumb!” 

“Oh, babe,” JJ coos. “Which thumb?”

Josh pouts beseechingly down at JJ. “The poorly one.”

“Aw,” JJ simpers. He lifts Josh’s hand and kisses it all over until Josh taps JJ’s cheek in a light little slap, both of them laughing under their breath. JJ makes a face at Josh. “I like your poorly thumb.”

“Yeah, you like all my fingers,” Josh agrees. He waggles his eyebrows at George, who just goes red again and turns to bury his face in the side of Jaymi’s arm. Jaymi mostly smells of cigarettes, chain-smoking through the window as they wait for the traffic to let up enough to move at a pace that doesn’t bother him.

Their meetings with Louis Walsh are always… shorter than implied on television. They go in, Louis’ forgotten all of their names except George’s, for reasons George doesn’t want to consider, they find out their ranking from the week previous, and are told which song they’re to sing for the upcoming Saturday. It’s finished in about fifteen minutes, and then Union J sits downstairs and either clowns about for Xtra Factor or waits for District3 and—well, not MK1 anymore. Then they’re all fed lunch, and it’s a treat to eat anything other than the food from the hotel or Craft Services.

JJ and Jaymi are bickering over the choice between Indian and pizza when Josh sidles over to George and sits beside him.

“Hey. Got bored of the argument. They’re like an old married couple.”

George giggles and slips his mobile in his pocket. He’d just answered a short message from Harry, letting him know that he did, yes, get his note, but no, did not eat any grapes with breakfast. “And that’s your job.”

“It’s not my job,” Josh says. “And I dunno if we’ll get married. Don’t really need to, and it’s so much paperwork.”

George snorts and wrinkles his nose. “Ew. Paperwork. Are you not going to stay with JJ past breeding age?”

“No, I am, I think,” Josh says. “I’d like to. He makes me happy. I just really don’t like paperwork. It’s my poorly thumb, you see, I can’t write for long periods.”

George shoves his shoulder. “You liar. You’re such a hypochondriac.”

“I am,” Josh says seriously. “A chronic case. I have to take placebos every day in my arsenal of pills.”

“Yeah, well,” George says. “Don’t get those mixed up with the necessary ones. I’d like to be a working boy band, you know, and that’s just not possible if one of the members has a baby.”

Josh laughs. “Yeah, bit unrealistic. But we’re not planning kids for another ten years, anyway. And then we’re aiming for three. Hopefully two boys and a girl, because the only names JJ likes are Gregory, Howard, and Marilyn.” George gives him a raised eyebrow and Josh raises one hand like a stop sign. “I don’t even want to talk about it. They’re the names of his old horses.”

“I sort of thought so,” George says. “So you’re just going to birth him replacement horses?”

“I’m not letting him ride the children,” Josh says dryly, and George dissolves in giggles, tucking his face up against his knees. The back of one thigh twinges a little, reminding him of the night before.

“How about you?” Josh asks. “Harry’s famous, I assume he wants to name his children Moon Unit and Apple Crisp and Wednesday Friday and such?”

“Oh, I don’t—we haven’t—I’m not… I don’t want kids,” George stammers. “We haven’t talked about it, but. I don’t want to have any.”

Josh’s eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline. “You should probably tell him sooner rather than later.”

“He hasn’t brought it up,” George mumbles. “We don’t… talk a lot. It’s… mostly other stuff.”

“Aha,” Josh says knowingly. “So little Georgie is getting less conservative than when we met? I thought you’d blast into space you turned so red the first time I made an innuendo in front of you. Glad you’re taking my advice. Don’t you feel so much better, not letting it all build up until Heat?”

“No,” George says honestly. He knows his eyes are wide because he can feel the naïve flutter of his eyelashes when he blinks. “Isn’t it just a biological thing? More breeding means less intense need to be bred? I don’t feel anything, really.” He licks his lip and swallows, because that’s a bit of a lie.

“Is Harry really a lousy lay?” Josh asks. “That’s so disappointing. False marketing, that is.”

George doesn’t giggle. He knows he should, but he doesn’t. “I don’t know. What’s the difference between a good lay and bad one as long as there’s a knot?”

Josh blinks. He sucks in air and blows out his cheeks a moment before exhaling slowly through his teeth, slinging an arm around George’s shoulders, and pulling him down to cuddle together on the sofa. “Georgie, George, George. What _did_ you learn… ever? You really don’t even know what you’re meant to be doing?”

“I’m meant to be getting a knot,” George mumbles. “And he manages that. And everything. So… it’s good?” He swallows, and takes a long minute to look at Josh. Josh is awkward and way too open about his private life with JJ and doesn’t really have a lot of tact. But he also tried to be helpful after George had Bonded to Harry, and practically no one else was. “But, erm, I don’t know if it is good? Is it, when you’re not in Heat, is it supposed to make you feel… weird?”

“Weird like how?” Josh asks. “If Harry’s doing something you don’t like, then no. Like if he’s asking you to do weird stuff, like, kinky stuff and it makes you feel weird, then no.”

“Not like that,” George says, his face flaming. “God, no, people don’t—that’s just for shit like the videos they make in Vegas, isn’t it, people don’t really do that kind of… no. No, it just makes me feel—” he waves a hand around in what he hopes is a helpful illustration. “You know? Is it supposed to—do that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Josh says flatly. “Do you have vitiligo? Is that the one where you’re always dizzy?”

“No, that’s the one Michael Jackson had. You’re thinking of vertigo. And no, I don’t have vertigo; I’m not saying I’m dizzy. I’m saying it makes me feel… like, hot?”

“Like sexy-hot?”

“No, temperature-hot, Josh, jesus.” George huffs impatiently. “Temperature-hot, and… swirly?”

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Josh says. “George, that’s just—” his face cracks open into a smile, a real one that shows his crooked teeth. “That’s just you liking Harry. And getting on with him. At least your bodies, if not your head yet.” He pokes the side of George’s head and mostly just fluffs about some hair. “ _Are_ you liking Harry in your head yet?”

George shrugs. “He’s fine. We don’t talk, like I said; there isn’t much to like. He’s mostly just sleepy when I see him. He’s fine. Doesn’t hog the blankets or anything. What d’you mean, liking Harry is what’s making me feel weird? Is it the Bond still settling? Does it go away?”

“No, George, it’s—fuck.” Josh shakes his head. “George, listen, okay, you’re too old not to understand this: that feeling is arousal. You like Harry. You like fucking him. And that’s okay. You probably should, since he’s your Bond and you’re stuck with him, sometimes literally, for at least the next half of your life. When you feel that feeling, what happens? You come, right?”

“No!” George tucks his knees in closer to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs. “I don’t! I’m not a masochist. I told you,” he says in a feeble attempt at a joke, “There’s no kinky stuff.” He doesn’t look at Josh when he continues. “I—that’s what I thought I’d ask? How do you, like. I almost did, yesterday, but it _hurts_ to come; it _sucks_ , and you’re the only other omega I know and you… like, no offense, but you have a lot of sex, so… how do I not? Not come? If I feel that, you know… weird. I tried thinking about moths last night and it worked a bit but then it stopped working and what if I’m secretly attracted to moths now? That would be the worst. As I’m afraid of moths.” He sighs and tucks his chin between his kneecaps. “I just need a better scary thing to think of, I think.”

“George,” Josh sighs. “You’re supposed to come. That’s like, a large percent of the point of sex. And the rest of the percent is to _like the person you’re having sex with_ , and you _have_ that part.”

“I thought the point is children,” George mutters. “Hence the tricking my body into thinking it’s breeding.”

“Hence?” Josh asks, laughing and poking George’s side, right up near his armpit where it tickles the most. “Hence? Hence nothing, George, it’s just sex, there is no hence. It can be for children. Or it could be ‘cause you like a person and they like you and you want to make each other come; that’s it.”

“But that’s so gross,” George mumbles. “And why would—Josh, I don’t know if it’s different for you, but it hurts _so bad_ to come, it’s _awful_ and it’s sticky and it _hurts_ and I don’t even care that I’m whining because it’s that bad.”

“Only after a million times during Heat!” Josh exclaims. “George, you—I promise, Georgie, I promise. It’s not bad. It doesn’t hurt all the time. I promise.” 

George’s eyebrows knit together as he looks stormily at Josh. His entire life, every experience that he has ever had with having Heat or even talking about it, reading on the internet about other omegas’ horror stories with their Alphas or being bullied and pushed into walls and having his wrists broken at school because he was scenting everywhere, being propositioned off the Las Vegas strip or being punished by nuns at school, is telling him that Josh… is either tricking him, or really into pain and humiliation.

“I _promise_ ,” Josh stresses. “There’s so many things you can do, George, that you don’t even probably know about.” He looks starry-eyed. “Has Harry licked the backs of your ears yet? You should ask him to lick your ears. Or you could lick his ears.”

“I don’t think I want to do any licking,” George says faintly.

“You’re missing out,” Josh sighs. “But… you know, you don’t have to just try things with Harry. Although if I were you, I would, because he probably assumes you know all this stuff. But you can try it on your own.”

George giggles into his knees. “I don’t think I can lick my own ears. It’s quite a thingy place, isn’t it?”

“No, god; George,” Josh says, sounding flustered. “No, just… you can try other things by yourself to get… accustomed to how it feels? Figure out what you like. What you don’t like. And then you tell Harry. And it’s better for you both. You have to be honest. He’s your Bond. All he wants is to make you happy, and you have to be able to do that before he can.” He pats George’s shoulder roughly enough that George makes a displeased noise and bats his hands at Josh. “ _Wanking_ , George, like I said the other day. You should try it.”

“Well, this sounds like an interesting conversation!” Jaymi says brightly, just in front of them. George startles so badly he thinks he’s jumped halfway to the ceiling. “Wanking? Is Harry not doing it for our little Georgie? Should I have a word with him?”

“No!” George squeaks, waving his hands. “No! Don’t! It’s fine! Nothing needs to be done to or at or for Georgie! Don’t—no—so, lunch?”

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	7. Chapter 7

_I changed into bellbottoms and a turtleneck and walked to Betsy's._

_The others were already there. Barbara Ann Bemis, Mary Masterson, and Betsy. Nobody else. Except me, all of my New Jersey friends were going to be betas, I guess. Betsy’s pretty Alpha mother sat on the front porch swing in her bikini again. She was drinking a tall glass of seltzer clinking with ice, and she gave me the up-and-down when I walked past._

_Betsy and the others and I sat around on cushions in her rec room—everyone in New Jersey has a rec room—and Betsy’s brother brought us all Cokes and cookies. He’s an omega, too, and Betsy said his name was Jason. He’s a few years older than me, and it made my stomach hurt to see what my skin will look like by the time I’m fifteen. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s pimples!_

_I didn’t much feel like having my Oreos, so I gave mine to Mary. That meant she had six._

_“Don’t you think that’s too many, Mary?” Betsy asked. “You don’t want to look like an omega. No offense, Margaret.”_

_I said none taken, but I was offended. After all, we can’t all be tall and broad-shouldered like Betsy. And I’m hardly growing already, even though Mom did say she and Bubbe Judy would take me into the city to Bloomer’s to buy me a training bra on Saturday. I’m more excited to see Manhattan again than I am to get a bra._

_“Did you see Peter Tuschman today?” Barbara Ann asked. She dipped her Oreos in her Coke, and I’d never seen anyone do that before. Maybe things are different in New Jersey._

_All of them giggled._

_“Who’s Peter Tuschman?” I asked._

_“You can’t miss Peter Tuschman.” Betsy always spoke to me as though she thought she were an Alpha, like her mother. She was very bossy. “He’s the tall omega who’s already got cheekbones. He also smells like _you know what_.”_

_“Oh,” I said. “I noticed him right off. He seemed nice.”_

_“He has a bad reputation,” Barbara Ann scolded me. “My brother told me that Todd Jenkins told him that Peter Tuschman goes behind the A &P with some of the ninth-grade Alpha boys and they all practice getting up a knot. He’s so smelly because he already scents.”_

_I choked on my Coke. I’d never heard anyone say those words so casually before. The only time I’d ever heard them at all was when Mom gave me The Talk._

_“Do you yet, Margaret?” Betsy asked._

_“Do I what?”_

_“Do you scent yet?” Barbara Ann asked, like I should have known._

_“Oh—no, not yet.”_  
— Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume°

***

In the main, George tries to keep Josh’s advice out of mind. The first day is easy; they’re busy preparing for the fourth live show and Halloween, anyway, and Harry is busy, too, his time allowance for spending with George used up now. He texts George bits and pieces of his day with a lot of what seem to be non-sequiturs until he explains them later (or until George sees One Direction on telly) – _Did you know it takes five weeks to put every individual hair into a wax statue at Mme Tussauds’s? .x_ and _If you combined America and Australia and Canada and Mexico, you still would have less people than China .x_

He doesn’t come back to the Corinthia that night, though, and while it’s nice to stretch out in his own bed again, the sheets smell of Harry all over. It calls up a sad sort of whalesong in George’s ribs, and Josh’s words—that George must already like Harry—keep George awake for hours.

The next day, Harry doesn’t text until late at night. _Sorry for the silence! Louis had a footie game. We won! .x_

(George already knows that. When he hadn’t heard from Harry by dinner, he Googled him. And there they are, dozens of photos of Harry wearing the tightest jeans he’s ever seen and cheering for Louis right from the sidelines of the pitch like he’s the omega and Louis is his Alpha. It unseats George, seeing it, even though he’s seen as many photos of Harry with the rest of One Direction looking joyful like that as anyone else has. It’s just the way he’s smiling—he hasn’t done that around George. And George hasn’t smiled like that for Harry, either, but George doesn’t know that he’s given that smile to anyone.

And there are the other photos, too, of Harry minding that tiny baby Alpha about the age of little Spenny who travels around with the band. He smiles for her, too, and it knocks George’s breath out like a punch because it’s so, so clear and reads across every feature on Harry’s face that he’ll want children. That he does, already, even if not for now. And she’s cute and everything, the little butterball in a TOMLINSON kit, but George has been woken by colicky screaming enough times in his life already and that’s all he really sees when he looks at babies. Plus, he doesn’t think that the world needs more Alphas.

Even if they are very cute sometimes, toddling out onto the football pitch, the height of Harry’s knee.)

Union J are well into the rush of preparing for the Saturday live by now. George keeps being sent around town on little publicity errands with Ella, too. Wearing silly Halloween costumes and looking scared seated on her lap on the Fright Bus. Dressing in matching fancy dress with the rest of Union J for Rylan’s birthday, which JJ still insists is a proper date night and Josh strenuously objects. 

After Tumbling back to the hotel that night, buzzed with drinks again, George is—maybe not disappointed that Harry still hasn’t come back even though he knows, he knows for a _fact_ that Harry is in London because he spent the day out and about with Nick Grimshaw and George saw photos and heard it on the radio. Maybe he is disappointed. He doesn’t know. All he does know is that Nick Grimshaw is an omega, too, and Harry’s perfectly keen to spend time with him, so it can’t be that he’s sick of the sour-citrus scent.

Long after Jaymi’s drunken snoring floods the air in their shared room, George lies awake, staring up at the outline of the waterspot on the ceiling.

He’s clearly done something wrong, but he can’t think of what. The last night that he’d seen Harry, Harry had seemed so pleased, so… _proud_ that he made George feel whatever it was that he made George feel. ‘Aroused,’ according to Josh, but George doesn’t even really understand what Josh meant by that. Harry did certainly arouse his attention, anyway, whatever he was doing differently.

The more time passes since, the more George tentatively thinks that it was… it wasn’t nice, but it really wasn’t so scary as it had seemed in the moment. Just because it felt like Heat didn’t mean that Harry could somehow call it up on command; George had Googled that, too, and assured himself that, at least, was something he’d learnt correctly. If it wasn’t Heat, then it wasn’t really George’s body leaving his own control. He’d still be able to think. He’d still be able to be… George.

But after, Harry had left in the morning without even waking him to say he was going. And now he hasn’t been back in days. Whatever happened, George was supposed to do something differently. He knows it. And somehow he’s going to be punished for it; somehow he’s going to lose. Maybe Harry won’t ever come back, and nothing will be able to help George through the Heat and he’ll miss the eighth show—if they make it that far—and he’ll be trapped, again, every month for the next sixteen years. Just when he’d found a loophole. Or maybe this is what Harry _does_. Studs omegas. Knots them and leaves. Makes them need him, makes them dependent. Vulnerable.

But somehow, lying alone in the dark, George doesn’t really think that. He would have before. Without reservation. Now the thought rolls across his mind like microfiche, a flicker of a headline that feels more like a _could be_ than an _is_. 

What _is_ is that something is wrong, and George actually wants to fix it. At the very least, he wants sleep.

Jaymi gives an almighty rumbling snore. George rolls his eyes and takes his mobile from the nightstand, squinting at the brightness as he taps out a text for Harry. _I’m sorry for whatever it is I did wrong. I can be better, I promise._

He sets the mobile on the mattress beside him and goes back to watching the ceiling. The light fades from his screen and then he’s in the dark again, listening to someone else’s Bond snore in the next bed. 

His mobile lights, and George snatches it up. _What? Nothing’s wrong. Just working! Are you alright? .x_

Maybe Harry can’t sleep either, all alone in a bed that suddenly seems too big even though rationally, George knows it’s just the right size. If Harry _is_ alone—he had spent the day with another omega. Not that it means much with Harry; George still remembers distinctly the way his leaves-and-gourds scent had clung in sugared droplets to Caroline’s jasmine bed sheets. For all George knows, Harry could be just down the corridor.

George shifts under the blankets to get cozier with his own knees before he types back, _I’m alright. Are you alright?_ His fingers ghost over the keys, but he doesn’t add _are you angry at me_.

There isn’t a wait this time before Harry writes back; _I’m alriiiight! .x Why aren’t you asleep?_

_Why aren’t you?_

_I don’t like sleeping alone_ , Harry says after a pause. And then right on its heels, _But I’ve got my tea & Sky Box. :) Anything good on at 3 in the morning?_

George’s face warms a little and he rolls over to shield the light so it doesn’t wake Jaymi. _Wouldn’t know. All I have is Jaymi sawing logs._ He sends a second message in an afterthought. It’s too bold, but it’s late and—well, Harry’s last text had a smiley, so he really mightn’t be angry. _Why are you ignoring me if you don’t like sleeping alone?_

This time, though, there is a wait for a response, and George’s stomach lurches. That was too forward. That was too forward, and he’s going to be in trouble, somehow; the niceties will stop and the charade will cease. Even if Harry weren’t his Alpha, George probably should have deferred to him; he’s _Harry Styles_ and George is just… George. The avoirdupois Harry carries is bigger than his body, it brings the whole of One Direction’s gravity along with it pulled in his wake, and George is the tiny pinprick of light just struggling to give him enough energy to keep him growing. It’s his role: _the Earth first, then stars, and last the sun, tied to the Earth and made to serve it._

But then Harry, with the weight of planets, just bombards George’s mobile with message after message, lighting it over and over through the dark of nowhere-near-dawn-on-a-Thursday.

_Two of my friends just Bonded recently and both of them said I should give you space .x_  
 _But I’m mostly just busy. I’m busy most of the time .x_  
 _Are you really alright? I can take more time off if you want? .x_  
 _Well I probably can’t actually. :( .x_  
 _Is that what you want?_  
 _It seemed like you were still angry about when I mentioned Cazza that time so I thought you’d like the space basically?_  
 _I’m sorry for mentioning Caroline that time .x_  
 _And I’m sorry for mentioning it again now .x_  
 _I found Mean Girls on one of the movie channels!! :D_  
 _Sorry .x I’m blaming the time…_

George is caught somewhere between a giggle and a gurgle when the spate of messages ends. His stomach is still churning acid, but he also wants to laugh. The things Harry says and does and acts… don’t make any sense; they’re more like Parisa, like a beta, than they are like the Alphas George has seen on television. They’re more like Parisa than they are like the _Harry_ George has seen on television, prancing around the old X Factor House with his skin all showing and his massive cock stuffed into a little gold thong because Harry can be naked in public, can show skin or hair or even nipples, without having to worry about something awful happening to him or being judged as anything worse than a flirt. The Harry whom George has seen on television stands tall, Alphaesque, knows how to turn his brightness on and never dims it. He’s the most famous boy in the world because he is the most Alpha in a group of Alphas in a world that loves Alphas. That Harry makes sense. 

This Harry doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t seem quite like an Alpha at all, if George is pressed. But George _knows_ that under the façade, Harry thinks like an Alpha. He must, and he does: he likes sex, wants it, thinks taking a knot is all that the Heat means. It’s not. It’s losing yourself and knowing that everyone can see it. That’s never happened to Harry Styles.

George swallows and considers the screen, scrolling through the messages before choosing the simple: _I’m really alright. I know you’re busy. I’m sorry. I’m not still angry. Good film._ He pauses before rolling onto his back and typing a second message. _Actually, not my favorite film. Do you like horror films?_

 _No. :( I’m a chicken_ , Harry replies. _Coocoocacha .x_

George does giggle this time, and across the room, Jaymi’s arm flails and a pillow smacks against the mattress casing.

“Shu’up, George,” Jaymi mumbles. “Lights off for campers.”

It’s not really George’s fault that makes him giggle more, he thinks, even as he sends a _Shame. I have to go. I’m sorry again. Night!_ and turns off his iPhone.

When he wakes the next morning, there’s a picture message from Ella of a stuffed plush monkey that she saw in a shop window on her way to get coffee with Tulisa, a voicemail from his Dad that’s a minute and half of Archie warbling through _Gangnam Style_ , and a singular text from Harry.

_Nothing to be sorry for on your end. I promise. I’d tell you. I don’t keep a Burn Book :) .x_

***

But then One Direction jet off to Spain. George hasn’t seen Harry in—well, in as long as he’d known him; they’ve spent half of their Bonded time away from each other now. It’s not as though George minds the solitude, and he’s grateful for even the illusion of independence, but that warm-set coating on the inside of his bones that’s made of HarryHarryHarry is twinging. Even the slightest provocations remind George of him now, and it’s become a distraction.

Particularly on the evening of Halloween proper, after the fourth Live Show has come and gone in a hail of heartbreak and they’re all working harder than ever to fight for their spot in the competition. George has spent the last sixteen hours with Jaymi, Josh, and JJ, his fingertips are raw from rebuilding his guitar-picking calluses, and finally, finally, he’s alone.

In a hotel room that has become an absolute _pit_. Jaymi is a slob, and always tosses off George’s complaints with a trite, “Sorry, Olly does my cleaning and laundering, I’m not used to it!” as he throws another sock—probably stolen off George in the first place—somewhere willy-nilly.

Like the kettle, apparently, George thinks in disgust as he gingerly picks up the sock for deposit in a laundry bag. He goes around the room, grumbling as he tidies, because even if he’s good at it and honestly likes it—it was his best unit in Home & Life Skills back at school—he’d like better if Jaymi didn’t leave _pants_ everywhere. 

There’s an oversize gray jumper on the floor near the foot of George’s headboard. 

When George picks it up, he’s barraged with the sweet scent of Harry. He’s been haunted by it today (fitting for Halloween, he thinks) because everything, even the things that Harry’s never touched, seem to carry that soft-butter scent of pumpkin and cold air and burning leaves; there’s sugar on everything, and it’s George’s favorite day of the year. Usually, George relishes Halloween as the one day a year he can put on fancy dress and be anyone—anything—that he wants; a dinosaur, an astronaut, a rockstar. He didn’t get to dress up today, but he got to sing in rehearsals with a band. A real one. With a real vocal coach to help them build their harmonies, a real stage where a real audience will watch them play, a real record deal hanging in the balance. It’s better than dressing up. This is George’s best Halloween ever, and the swirling, gently warm scent of Harry clinging to the gray jumper coats every inch of it.

The electricity under George’s skin perks up. _Harry?_

For the first several days of Harry’s absence, his smell had stayed on the sheets and pillowcases, and George always found upon waking that he’d curled around them in the night, pressing his face in close to take in as much as he could. Every morning that he woke surrounded in Harry’s scent, George had been… _affected_ by it nearly as much as he’d been by Harry’s presence itself. Since the bedding had been washed and Harry’s smell was gone, he hadn’t had that particular inconvenience. 

The jumper brings it all rushing back, whatever _it_ is that makes George’s body respond to Harry so much. George has asked around, poking anonymously online in omega communities, and supposedly Josh is right—it’s meant to be a sign that at least their chemistry works well together, but it might be a side effect of the Bond and the way George’s DNA is changing to reflect that he’s Harry’s. 

Whatever it is, the heady dense rush of Harry’s pheromones on the jumper make George’s gut stir and his cock peek up, half-hard. It’s still enough to make George blush despite being alone, but he isn’t—it’s weird, but it isn’t so terrifying now that he knows what it is. It’s just a physical reaction.

And, well. George wouldn’t even be having it now if he didn’t have a habit of attempting to get a handle on his body’s reactions when they arose. If if if if if _touching it_ will make it go away so he can get back to his night, then George will try it.

(That, though, does send a little spike of fear up his back. He knows, rationally, that the first orgasm of every Heat doesn’t hurt, so there shouldn’t be such a worry of it hurting now, but the rest are all awful, the last half-dry shuddering spurts on the fifth day enough to make him sob and cry out and yank out his hair or fingernails or scratch long oozy lines into whatever skin he finds first, his thighs or sides or arms, just to feel anything else than the muscle-deep stinging. That’s what sticks in George’s head when he thinks of coming.

He hesitates for a minute before pulling Harry’s jumper over his head. It’s not for _comfort_. It’s not. It’s just for grounding. The scent of it reminds him that he’ll never have to go through a Heat like that again. That’s what’s comforting, not—Harry.)

It’s warm with the thick woolen jumper on, and warmer still as George’s body alights with rushing blood and tentative memories of the last time he’d seen Harry. George swallows, face red, as he darts across the room to shut off the light, hiding from himself in the dark. 

_It isn’t bad. It isn’t shameful. It’s something that people do._

It’s not like George thinks that it’s going to make his eyes go crossed or hair to grow on his palms, or anything, but it feels… like he’s tempting fate. Like Jaymi will know right away when he gets back from Luton tomorrow morning and tell Harry that George wants it. Like Harry will be able to tell just from one look at George’s face the next time they meet—whenever that is; Harry’s in Spain tonight and George doesn’t know when he’s coming back—and he’ll think that George _wants_ to be bred. Like if people know, he’ll lose something. 

George picks his way through the dim light back to his bed and hesitates for a long minute before undoing the button fly on his trousers. There’s a bare stickiness from scent on the back of his pants that’s become annoyingly omnipresent since Bonding, and his fingers brush at the small, hot firmness of his cock as he unbuttons the fly and works his jeans down. It doesn’t feel like much. At least not as much as some of the video previews that had come up when he’d furtively searched _how do omegas masturbate?_ made it seem.

He hadn’t actually made it through any of the videos that had come up. They all seemed so—

It’s degrading, really, George thinks, and that’s what he’s spent his whole life trying not to be. Degraded. And it’s different, doing it alone in the dark in his own room, but he never wants to look like that. Not for himself, and not for Harry; not for anyone. 

So he won’t. He’ll leave the jumper on. Stay quiet. He’s just getting rid of the arousal and then he’ll go back to cleaning. (Maybe keeping himself wrapped up in the smell of Harry is counterproductive to making his body get over its reaction to the way Harry smells, but if it makes George feel… safer, then he’s going to keep it.) He’ll keep his pants on, too, George thinks as he scoots up on the mattress. One of the resources he’d found that wasn’t actually porn had said that he could, said that he should focus on _feeling good_ and not on coming. 

(Well, George thinks privately, no shit. Those are not the same thing.)

He lies back against the pillows, closes his eyes, and lets the nervous energy and bright-hot arousal thrum through him, rushing so fast through his veins that it feels like he’s vibrating. If he weren’t clutching onto the covers so tightly, George might think he’d float away before he even does anything. He hooks his toes together to keep his knees from chattering.

 _He can do this._ And if he can’t, then he doesn’t have to. Josh is sort of a weirdo. George will be fine.

The edge of his skin feels cold because everything beneath is so flushed. It feels, honestly, like the hinting nudge of Heat coming a day before it hits, and it puts a point to George’s teeth. _It’s October 31_ , he reminds himself. _I’m fine. I’m fine. I can take care of myself._

(Except he doesn’t actually… know what to do?)

George shifts. The insides of his thighs radiate bright warmth. George exhales. When he takes another breath, he tries to focus on the soft cotton candy sugar smell of Harry bleeding off the jumper, and that—helps. With this. Centers him back on his purpose.

How had Harry… done whatever it was that he did that last time, made it seem so inescapable? 

George presses his lips together. Harry will know, somehow, that George is thinking about him. It’s not like George thinks Harry will _mind_ , but he’ll definitely… know. That’s okay, isn’t it? George shifts again as his cock thickens up harder between his legs and the little movement of the shifting of his thighs makes it press against the cotton of his pants. That doesn’t feel terrible. It doesn’t feel like Harry, but it doesn’t feel terrible. 

Okay, George thinks; this is how he’ll tackle this. (He knows that he’s supposed to, to, to, to put his fingers… in. And rationally, that would feel more similar to getting a knot, but it just seems so, so, so, so, it’s too much. If he were able to knot himself, if he were _supposed_ to knot himself, he wouldn’t even be in this situation, would he, and it also seems so… wet. And sticky. Dirty. It’s dirty in every sense of the word. So he just won’t.) He can just touch—touch the bit at the front, through his pants. That’s fine.

Okay.

Alright.

So he can do it. That’s what he’ll do.

George doesn’t move. He lies silently, breath shallow and loud in the dark and eyes screwed tightly shut. His cock is hard, like it can read his mind that he’s going to pay attention to it for once instead of just ignoring its presence. It doesn’t feel the way it does when Harry is there. It isn’t practically buzzing with energy like it felt the last time Harry was having sex with him and even George’s omega dick seemed huge and heavy with its presence between his legs. It isn’t roundly thrumming with his heartbeats, either, keenly aware, the way that it feels when he’s kissing Harry and they’re pressed together front-to-front. 

That feeling is better. That, George does… like. If pressed, he would admit that he likes it, the protective bulk of Harry over him, covering him in his roasty scent and the solid sturdiness of his shoulders and hips above him. That feels—good.

It feels good.

George licks his lip and carefully presses the heel of his palm against the base of his cock through his pants. That doesn’t feel too bad. It doesn’t really feel like anything, but it—what does Harry do that’s different?

He moves, doesn’t he. They sort of… rub.

So George does, eyes still closed and cold-wobbly toes still tucked together to protect himself, as he tries to call up the way Harry makes him feel. This is different; he probably feels more with his hand than he is with anything else, and under his palm, he can feel his pulse pushing back at him. He’s always generally ignored his cock, except during the Heat when it hurts so badly it feels like he’ll split his body in two, and now… it seems much less of a menace, much more manageable, this small thing between his thighs. George can nearly cover it with his hand.

He curiously traces the shape of it under his thumb and shudders at the drag against the ridge beneath the tip. It’s different than the shape of Harry’s had been when George glanced at it, even aside from the size and the dark soft skin around the base of Harry’s where his knot fills. George’s cock is smoother, slighter, doesn’t taper the way Harry’s does. Intellectually George knew that, since Harry’s is meant for actual purposes and George’s just sort of gets in the way sometimes, but it’s different to… feel it, for once, and have enough of his wits about him to pay attention. This is a part of him. 

(George has never really thought of it that way. Everything about him, even down below, is a part of him as much as anything else.)

He rocks his palm lightly against the front of his pants and lets the light pressure of it mix into the scent of Harry rising off the jumper, blending together to lurch into—something. It doesn’t feel the way it did when Harry was the one touching him; this is more of an itch, almost, a tingle. It’s a response, but it isn’t… hot.

George takes a low, deep breath and keeps his hand moving, pressing, but lets the other come to rest on his belly. Harry always touched more of him than just the bits, whether that was necessary for mating or just something Harry wanted to touch and feel and examine. Harry had said before that he was _learning_ George. Well, George can learn himself, too, although he thought before all of this that he was the expert on his own being. 

He can feel the pace of his breath, the slight tightening of his muscles as the, the itch behind his lower hand gets stronger, taking little syncopated steps like it’s dancing towards something far off in the corner. It’s hot under the heavy wool of the jumper, and sweat is prickling up over George’s skin. 

He swallows and slides the hand from his belly beneath the fabric of the jumper. The muscles in his abs are new and still barely noticeable, but it’s nice to know that all of the workouts that he’s followed Josh and JJ on have done anything at all. George pets a little at the tight muscle there and it’s a surprise when that seems to add to the feeling being drawn slowly to the surface below like buttermilk. A soft sigh escapes George as he lets his fingers draw little absent-minded patterns over the damp skin of his belly and moving, slowly, up to his chest.

Harry had—he’d touched George’s nipples and it had been, that had been… a lot. George has always mostly ignored them, because when they’re poking out through his t-shirts and people can see, it’s mortifying, but no one had ever touched them the way Harry had before George pushed his hand off. (It’s frustrating how Harry seems to understand George’s body better than he does, or at least he can make it feel things George didn’t think it was meant to. 

But the rubbing on his cock is getting sort of boring, if he’s honest, and his stomach is just a stomach, so… why not?)

_Oh._

George’s first instinct is to jerk away as a surprised, nervous whimper punches out of his lungs. That’s—that’s—that’s what feels like Heat, _that_ bright-hot electricity that connects the edges and corners and points of his body and makes his legs fall open. The feeling of his hand on his cock isn’t boring anymore, not if he’s got another finger tracing circles over his nipple. Under the pad of his finger, the nipple draws tight and pebbles up and George can’t tell whether it feels like more or less once it’s hard and pointed. He’s still fighting himself, pushing into and pulling away from the feeling all at once because the pressure building up, the feeling, feels like he’s full of fizz and being shaken and even though he knows, from being told, that the burst doesn’t hurt—it’s hard to go against what he _knows_ just from what he’s been taught and told. He’s been taught that it’s bad and he’s been told that it’s good, but he knows—

The fizzing-tickle of electricity burns brighter and with a tiny, half-suffocated grunt of annoyance, George tucks his hand under his pants because the cotton texture rub is too rough. Without that barrier, though, suddenly everything feels different and the pressure ebbs away in an instant, leaving behind just a hint of an overstretched feeling like needing to sneeze and—not. 

George grunts again, his eyes opening on a scowl. He’s still hard, but suddenly everything’s gone and he has to start all over.

This sucks.

This sucks as bad as he thought it would suck.

In a different way, because at least it doesn’t hurt, but this _sucks_. There are a million better ways that he could be spending his time than just… playing with his penis to see if it’ll do the thing.

George flops over onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillow. The smell of Harry has leached back into the cotton through the jumper and that helps, the sweet-cream crisp apple scent, so George gulps it in, scooting up on the mattress and—

Well, that’s. That’s a bit more like having Harry here than the other was; he can press his face up into the smell of Harryharryharry and just move against the mattress with the same little pushing touches that Harry always encourages so much when they’re kissing.

George does like that. With Parisa, kissing had been more about comfort and sometimes boredom, but kissing Harry isn’t boring. It’s easier to want to move when Harry is moving, too, the warm heavy guidance of him pushing George’s hips to go where he wants them. But picturing it, thinking about how Harry’s lips are so soft and sometimes he hums against George’s mouth with his deep, raspy voice and his hands are so big and so confident and so strong—that helps.

Face still hiding against the pillow, George keeps moving, hips twitching down against the mattress in sharp, short thrusts. He clutches onto the corners of the mattress like they’re shoulders and tries to keep his breathing as quiet as he can, but the bright-hot feeling is back; George’s leg scrabbles up, opening his thigh so he can rock against the mattress and get feeling where it seems to feel best, tip to base and back to where he’s scenting onto the fabric of his pants. It doesn’t feel—

George wouldn’t call it _good_. Expectant, maybe, or or or _anticipatory_. At this point, after this much work, George is in it to see what the fuss is, what he’s fighting with his brain against itself to get towards. He wants to know why Josh does this, why Harry keeps voicing that he wants it from George, he wants to know if he should want it from _himself_. The warmer he gets, the sweatier, the more of Harry’s scent wafts out of the jumper mixed with his own sour-orange skin scent and it calls up a part of his brain that remembers coming just from the smell of Harry near him, remembers how it feels to have Harry’s skin touching him so close. 

George whimpers.

It doesn’t feel like Heat at all, to come like this.

It doesn’t feel like… coming, either, as George knows it. Coming without the Heat is a dry shudder, skin and muscle but not bone-deep, a short silvery whisper. His hair feels like it’s ruffled on edge, like he needs to be pet to smooth out his skin again, but that’s it—a whisper of a word that George can’t catch, a whiffling shimmer, a twist at the base of his spine. And it’s over.

That’s it.

That’s it?

George rolls over after a minute and actually pulls back the elastic on his pants so he can look. His cock isn’t hard anymore, soft and small and curled up against the pale mound between his hips again. So he must’ve come. 

He blinks and blows some fringe out of his face, pulling damp hair away from his temples.

That’s it?

 _That’s_ what Harry wants out of him so badly?

That was like a sneeze and a half, that was like peeling a scab, that was like stepping into a hot shower after a long stretch at the gym, that was like eating a really good scoop of dark coffee-toffee ice cream.

_That was it? That’s what he’s been so afraid of for the last half a month?_

George sits up and peels out of the jumper because he is _very_ sweaty underneath and it doesn’t seem quite worth it. It wasn’t a bad experience; he wouldn’t be averse to letting Harry do whatever it is that he thinks is so important about making that happen. It didn’t seem like something that should come from the bright-hot intense drenching feeling that he’d had when Harry’s cock bumped up inside him the last time, but if that’s really all it’s after, he’ll take it.

Except now he’s all sticky. George grumbles and shucks out of his pants, too, leaving them in a heap on top of the jumper. He traipses nude to the bathroom and doesn’t feel as awkward about it, tiny pinpricks of light shivering their way out of his skin in strange places, like the bends of his elbows and the soft backs of his knees. George yawns as the shower water runs cold over his hand and he waits for it to turn as hot as he likes, enough to steam his skin red like a protective shell.

After he’s clean and pleasantly pink, George wraps up again in fluffy towels and heads back to the room proper to keep cleaning. When he clicks on the television, a Harry Potter marathon is playing on one of the high-up Sky channels. George hesitates, still only wearing the towel, but takes up his mobile.

 _Your namesake is on telly_ , he sends Harry. _What House are you?_

He balls up his sticky pants and throws them into the laundry bag, but keeps Harry’s jumper aside. It may be dry-clean only, he reasons. It has nothing to do with saving the last whiff of Harry’s scent. It’s just that George will give it back to him when next he sees Harry and Harry can get it cleaned himself. He’s a popstar, he has laundry money, probably.

 _Gryffindor, of course_ , Harry answers. _Although I nearly got put in Slytherin. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed my lightning scar._

 _HAHA_ , George writes back. _I’d mention my twin Fred, then, but it depresses me. :(_

 _Do you have any brothers?_ Harry asks. _As George Shelley, not George Weasley .x_

George sits down on the edge of his bed and bites at the edge of one thumbnail as he thumbs, _Eight. Well 8 sibs, 5 bros and 3 sisters._

After a minute, Harry texts again with, _Wow! I probably should have known that about you by now. Can we have dinner tomorrow night? I should be back in the UK by 9… .x_

George tucks his legs underneath him. Even though the orgasm hadn’t felt like much of anything, his muscles all feel loose and happy now, and it’s a sort of calm that he doesn’t know he’s ever felt before, so he’s going to attribute it to that. If he sees Harry tomorrow, that may happen again; then again, tomorrow is a Thursday and his Fridays are so, so long. He kind of… doesn’t want to spare that hour, if that’s all they’re working towards. That might not be something that Harry wants to hear, though; he’d been trying so, so hard to make George come the last time and gotten so close and now that George knows he can (and Harry will know, looking at him, Harry will know)

But he looks over to where Harry’s gray jumper is folded over the back of the chair. He texts back, _Sure. But at the hotel if that’s OK? Long week._

 _Of course! .x_ Harry says after a long enough wait that by the time he responds, the Harry on-screen is riding the back of a hippogriff over Hagrid’s pumpkin patches. _I’m excited to see you .x_

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)

° Adapted for this work from _Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret_ by Judy Blume ©1970.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry this chapter is late! If you follow my [tumblr](http://aimmyarrowshigh.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/aimmyarrowshigh), I generally try to keep everyone apprised of when the chapters will be posted. The last week was rough on updating because we've changed the schedule at work over to summer hours, which affects my writing time--but I already have about 2k of the next chapter finished (I cut it from this chapter!), so it _should_ be up on either Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, which is the new schedule I'm aiming for. So... "weekends," in general. I'm really, really grateful to anyone's who's reading this weird little gristle of a story, and I hope you stick with me. :(


	8. Chapter 8

_OpEd:_

 

> It seems to me that in light of the recent protests over omega healthcare options in the United States, we here in the UK may wish to reexamine the recent findings in the inquiry on the inquiry of the inquiry on the inquiry of the findings of the most recent inquiry, held in 1976, on the state of omega health options here through the NHS.
> 
> Or, at one US state Senator phrased it during last week’s kerfuffle in Texas over the right for omegas to seek reproductive healthcare without the consent of their Alpha cosigner: “At what point must an omega raise her hand or her voice to be recognized over the Alphas in the room?”
> 
> If the UK is our proverbial ‘room,’ then I for one am raising my hand and my voice in favor of recognizing the downward slope of omega-accessible options through NHS. The so-called Equality of Care Commission (EoCC) may have been a reputable source of omega patient care once, but has devolved into a bureaucratic farce that still stinks of Thatcher’s extreme misomeguistic political stances. The EoCC revealed over the past weekend that the NHS had assisted in hospital cover-ups of shaming and bullying tactics, refusal to treat omega patients unaccompanied by Alphas, and even the widespread diagnoses of omegas with outdated and debunked psychological disorders (such as hysteria) in order to classify them as ‘incompetent’ in their quest for medical autonomy. It is reprehensible that in forty years, there have been scarcely a dozen trials of regulators or administrators actively putting patient lives at risk.
> 
> For omegas—citizens—seeking independent healthcare to be turned away from hospital and life-saving procedures by our nationalized system is, or should be, a criminal offense[…]

***

George isn’t really sure, the next day, whether he’s excited to see Harry. It’s nice to know that he hasn’t been abandoned or turned into a laughingstock of breedingstock in the pop celebrity world or anything like that. It’s even been nice to talk to Harry the last few days, but George thinks that may be due to the magic of texting—he can think about what Harry’s said and filter it through before deciding how to reply, and he can make sure that he doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean. Harry does send him the odd winky emoticon, but George can deal with winky faces. He’s made them himself once or twice.

But seeing him in person makes him nervous again. It stirs up all of the butterflies that he’d thought were dying. This time, though, there’s the added layer of realizing just how little he and Harry do know each other—Harry really hadn’t even known about all of George’s brothers and sisters; it’s a wonder he even realizes that George is in Union J—outside of the roles that they fulfill in each other’s lives. And George saw the photos of Harry with little Baby Lux… eventually, he’s going to have to tell Harry that he doesn’t want to have children, and it’s going to go so, so poorly. It’s going to end in George giving up his future; he probably already has, in some part, Bonding to someone who wants children without asking first whether that was the case. It’s not like he can blame Caroline for it, either, even though she didn’t ask. George is in charge of himself. That’s what he wanted. He gave up a moment of that to take Caroline’s help and in doing that, he gave up more of himself than he expected.

(And, annoyingly, stuck in his gut like sour grapes: George doesn’t want to make Harry sad almost as much as he’d like to avoid making Harry angry with him. There’s no reason for him to care whether Harry is happy or sad, really, especially if the alternative is his own misery. So he’s going to blame the Bond for that, even though Caroline explained that for George, it’s purely a physical change. She must be a bit wrong. He can feel those dips and rises in Harry’s emotions, anyway; it can’t be _only_ physical. ‘Mostly’ feels more accurate to George. Mostly.)

And there’s the other thing, too.

That thing is that George is exhausted. And a bit ill. He’s picked up the headcold that seems to have plagued everyone in the competition, one by one, for the last week, and he’s so nervous about this week’s show after last week’s disaster in the Bottom Two that he can hardly eat. He’ll be playing his guitar live on stage on television in front of millions of people. It will be his chance to prove that he was chosen because he is a musician, and not because he’s filling a quota or letting the judges fill him. (Although, really, Tulisa’s fairly uncomplimentary comments the last two weeks should have shown the home audience that she doesn’t even remember the flirtation George thought he’d really nailed at his audition. She certainly doesn’t seem to. In some ways, George is glad, but in others, it’d be nice to feel more secure with their spot on the show.)

George just doesn’t feel much like letting Harry have sex with him. He sort of wants to eat some soup, then curl up under the covers and go to sleep for as long as he can before his early, early call to hair, makeup, and wardrobe for dress rehearsals.

But you can’t just… tell an Alpha that you don’t want to be bred. Especially not your Bond.

While Josh and JJ are off with each other and Jaymi is out window-shopping with Rylan, George finds himself taking solace in a very sweet flat white at the Costa up the road from the Corinthia. He’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s a rainy November day—and he’s indoors—and his nose is pink with cold and damp—so he feels a bit ridiculous, and the milk and sugar are probably murder for his vocal cords, but dammit. Coffee.

There’s still a ‘SUPPORT OUR GEORGE!’ sign up in this Costa, too, although it isn’t one where George ever worked. It’s right under their Equal Employment Commission certification placard. George tries not to think that it’s playing off the same statement, and that it’s just where it fit on the wall, but he isn’t sure that’s true. In all honesty, the best chance that Union J have for the next five weeks lies with the idea of solidarity, omegas voting for George and Josh, maybe sympathetic beta campaigners, too. George had thought heading into the show’s run that maybe there would be boy band solidarity, too, and fans of JLS or The Wanted or One Direction would band together to vote in a great bloc for Union J, but instead they turn out to be some of the most derogatory in their comments after shows.

He snorts stuffily into his coffee, wondering whether those comments would improve or devolve if people knew that he was Harry’s much-rumored new Bond.

There have been breathless reports of Harry getting some kind of new tattoo that people say is indicative that he’s found a Bond, and fuming speculation on who it might be, although there aren’t enough famous omegas for people to find any to name them. ‘A fan’ and ‘Nick Grimshaw’ are the most popular guesses; ‘he wouldn’t Bond, he loves Louis!’ and ‘he wouldn’t Bond, he’s back with Caroline Flack!’ are even more common. If George didn’t know any better, he would guess Nick Grimshaw, too, since Harry’s been spotted with him and _not_ with George, although a lot of that is because George is just so damn busy—and doesn’t want to give anyone the chance to say that Union J got whatever they’ve earned out of being attached to One Direction.

So speculation it is. George can hide behind it. He has his own rumors, anyway. There’s an official betting pool on which week he and Ella will reveal that they’ve Bonded.

(They’re trying to figure out whether there’s a way to fake it and collect the cash themselves. It seems like a pretty good way to ensure George wins _something_ at least, since Ella is going to take the whole competition.)

Soft hands cover George’s eyes from behind. He tenses before a familiar voice leans down and cheekily whispers, “Guess who?”

George grins. “Speak of the devil, Ellabear. I was just thinking of how to trick you out of your share of our millions.”

“You can’t outsmart me,” Ella sniffs, sitting across from him. Her arms are laden down with shopping and there are huge sunglasses perched atop her head. “Anyway, you’re old. I’ll just golddigger you.”

“Unfortunately for you, you are messing with a broke bro,” George says. “I’ve spent the last of my money on this cup of coffee.”

“Yeah, but you’re also Harry Styles’,” Ella points out. “He could buy you a whole coffee plantation, probably. Is that what they’re called? Coffee jungles?”

“I don’t want Harry to spend his money on me,” George says stiffly. “He’s earnt it, hasn’t he? I can earn my own.”

“I know that,” Ella says. She shrugs out of her jacket and leaves it perched over the back of her chair. “I’m not saying you can’t. I’m just saying, Harry has plenty of money and he probably wants to buy you things like coffee jungles and John Lennon’s guitar and things.”

“I’d rather have George Harrison’s,” George says. “My namesake, after all. But Harry doesn’t need to buy me things just because he’s my Alpha.”

“He might not need to, but he may want to,” Ella points out. “I like buying you things, and to me you’re just the fluffy boy who lives down the corridor temporarily. Speaking of, d’you want to split a pud?”

George giggles, ducking his head. “Yeah, sure. Something with toffee, if there is, please and thank you.”

Ella gives him a soft grin as she stands up and leans across the table to squeak a kiss into the top of George’s head. Her hair falls like a willow around George’s face, shrouding him in the scent of her, like spiced gingerbread all clove and cardamom. It’s thick and syrupy, sweet as a cloud, reminds George of winters at Costa and Starbucks, shuffling between coffee shops to make afternoon treats and morning pick-me-ups for the betas who see themselves so much better than he is. But it also reminds him of making gingerbread houses with Will and Harriet and Spencer and Louisa and Annabelle and Archie and it makes him wonder whether Spenny will get to make one this year or if he’s still so little that the hard candy pips would go straight up his nose, the way Archie’s always seem to go. And of course it brings Ella to mind, now that he knows her; it’s such an _Ella_ scent, the same way the heat of ginger sneaks up on you in a cake is the way Ella’s talent and presence and poise sneak up on a person when they watch her sing. It’s a lush scent, the way it spills through the tendrils of her hair and draws George’s attention to the smooth of her skin where the smell rises from.

But it doesn’t—it doesn’t make George feel anything the way that Harry’s scent does. Even so close, even with a kiss, even from someone that George cares about so much. Ella’s scent doesn’t affect him any more than Parisa’s, despite having that Alpha terroir. It doesn’t affect like him like Harry’s.

 _Ella_ doesn’t affect George like _Harry_ , George thinks faintly, watching Ella up at the counter as she orders her coffee and a sticky toffee pudding to share. She’s wearing one of those poofy skirts she likes so much and brightly colored stockings that droop just behind one ankle. It’s all patterned, all colorful, all bits of shine and glitter. It’s different from Harry, with his black jeans and black shirts. They stand differently: Ella stands like she’s already the rockstar, shoulders back, knees straight, head high, an Alpha stance. Harry doesn’t.

George smiles down at his hands on the table, thinking about Harry’s perpetually cockeyed lean.

“What are you smiling at?” Ella asks, sliding back into her seat. She shuffles around her plates and mug so she can divvy the pud in two. “Is your boy coming back from whatever exotic locale he’s visiting?”

“We’re having dinner,” George confirms. “At the hotel. Erm, actually—” he tears at the corner of his paper napkin. “Actually, could you possibly maybe hang around? During dinner? I’m erm, liable to lose track of time and we’re on such a tight schedule,” George lies. Harry has never done anything to warrant George being afraid, but they’ve also never spent time alone together that wasn’t just mating. They haven’t seen each other in long enough that their honeymoon period of Bonding has ended; George can tell, because his bones have stopped aching like treacle inside. He’s finished transforming. He just _is_ , now, _is_ Harry’s. And maybe Caroline said that Harry belonged to George, too, or that Harry was a good person, but the only Harry that George knows is one whose bones are soft inside just as much.

This Harry will be different. Solid. Hard.

So George is nervous. About how to act, how to speak, what he’s meant to do. There’s a tugging urge in his chest to find his old notes from Home & Life Skills to brush up on his dining etiquette. He knows he should keep Harry’s water glass full, but what if Harry orders wine or a cocktail? George doesn’t remember what to do about restaurant dining, only home skills. There didn’t seem like much of a need to remember it back in Clevedon, so he let it fall out of his head. And what if Harry orders him something horrible to eat, like jellied eel? George might go catatonic on the floor if he has to eat jellied eel.

“Yeah, sure,” Ella says. She pushes George’s sticky toffee pudding across their little table and then rests her fingers over the back of his hand. “I’m really glad you’re happy. I hope Harry treats you like a prince. I think you’re good together.”  
She turns to her coffee, stirring in sugar, and George stares at her. “How are we good together? You’ve only seen us together the once, at breakfast.”

“Yeah, but you’re really similar.” Ella adds another sugar to her coffee, and George wrinkles his nose.

“Hair doesn’t count, Ellabear.”

Ella rolls her eyes. “I’m not counting hair. You’re just both… I don’t know. You’re different from how you’re meant to be. I mean that as a compliment even if it didn’t sound like one. Plus you’re both so tall and awkward that if it pops into my head that you actually mate with each other, all I see is flailing elbows and knees. It’s much better than when Josh and JJ stroll across my brain.” She shudders.

George’s nose wrinkles, too, and he shudders right back. The table jiggles on a wobbly leg, but neither coffee sloshes. “Thanks for that.”

Ella laughs through her nose before holding up a hand to pause things until she’s swallowed some of her sticky toffee pudding. “I’m just saying. You and Harry are both pretty and the way he looked at you at breakfast makes me think you’re both fairly lucky.”

George keeps staring at Ella, his eyes set a bit narrow and shrewd as she wrangles some stray crunch pieces back onto her fork. There’s a lick of caramel on her sharp, varnished fingernail, and she sucks it off delicately, pink-cheeked, before she finally looks back at George. “What?”

“How do you figure?” George asks quietly. “What do you mean, how he looks at me, I don’t—I’m not sure what’s lucky about being Bonded to someone I barely know?”

“Well,” Ella hums, “He’s nice, isn’t he? You could have ended up with a real wanker. I mean, if Caroline hadn’t found you, you might’ve ended up with Dan. Cazza said she saw him crossing the corridor on her way to mine that night, maybe he’d’ve found you. And he’s a real tosser, isn’t he? But Harry seems like he’s polite and everything, and so are you, and you’re both fit and clean and you both like fruit. Maybe you don’t really know each other, but it’s better than someone you know and hate, like Dan, and just… I can tell Harry really wants to know you. He’s got that look.”

“ _What_ look?” George presses.

“Fond,” Ella decides. “He looks at you fondly. And that’s nice, because a lot of the Bonded Pairs I’ve known have not really looked at each other fondly. The way Harry looks at you, it’s like how JJ looks at Josh.”

“Like a translator?”

Ella giggles. “No, you jerk. JJ isn’t that thick. No, he looks at Josh like he’d be a bit lost without him. I think that’s nice. I think it’s romantic.”

It’s not something George would have said when trying to describe JJ and Josh—horny, sure, and kind of inappropriate; kinky, maybe, because he’ll never quite get that initial image of JJ straddling Josh’s hips, getting everything backwards, out of his head. But _romantic_. That’s new. Maybe that day Josh felt ill and JJ kept everyone else at arm’s length, that would be romantic. It was caring, at least.

But the idea that being incompetent without someone isn’t anything George has ever wanted. It’s not how he wants to feel about Harry, and if Harry feels that way about him, it’s a bit unfair, isn’t it.

But then—

“That’s now how Josh looks at JJ,” George points out.

“No,” Ella agrees. “But Josh is less thick. He mostly just looks glad that he’s the one who gets to show JJ the way, doesn’t he?” George just makes a noncommittal noise, so Ella adds, “That’s what I want someday, I think. Josh and JJ make good partners, you know? They’re each good at what the other person’s bad at. I think you and Harry might be like that, too.”

“Excuse you,” George blusters, “What am I bad at that Harry’s so brilliant with? And be careful answering, since he and I have the same hair and the same job.”

Ella laughs and spoons some foam from the top of her drink. “He’s good at looking at you fondly. And you’re good at remembering you’re actually strangers.”

George is gobsmacked into silence at that. Other than drinking his coffee and occasionally trumpeting to blow his stuffy nose, he’s content to let Ella chatter about her exploits with Tulisa and Caroline and what it was like to meet the Little Mix girls. He isn’t really listening. He hasn’t seen Harry in days, and Ella’s only met him the once, so it’s entirely likely that she just misinterpreted the look she’s calling ‘fond’ when it was really ‘scrutinizing’ or ‘lusting’ or ‘waiting for George to refresh his tea.’

And yet, says a near-silent voice in the back of his mind, George does trust Ella. So he’ll look for ‘fond’ tonight when he sees Harry.

 

***

It might be there, when Harry turns up to the Corinthia’s Lobby Lounge wearing a button-down shirt with a pattern on it so ridiculous that it _must_ be designer along with his customary skin-tight black jeans. His hair looks like he might have attempted to comb it and the bristles didn’t get along with the strands, but it’s as roguish and charming as anything ever looks on Harry. He grins until his cheeks dimple and trods right over to where George is seated at one of the tables in the back, out of the circle of illumination from the massive crystal chandelier, wearing tan trousers and a blue jumper because he didn’t bring any suits with him to the hotel. He’d been told that a stylist would provide one whenever he needed for the show or related events, and he hadn’t exactly anticipated—this.

He’s drinking a Lemon & Ginger tea, too, in part because his cold seems to be steadily getting worse and in part because he’d left his identification and alcohol permit upstairs and didn’t want to risk being late to go get them. It had been hard enough to get the Lobby Lounge, which was decidedly more upscale than the upstairs dining room for the X Factor contestants’ meals, to seat him without an Alpha present.

“Hi!” Harry chirrups. George half-stands so he can pull out Harry’s chair, but Harry frowns and waves his hand. “I’ve got it. Do you not feel well? Should I come back tomorrow?”

“I’m okay,” George says. “Just a cold. It’s been going around. I don’t want you to feel like I asked you all the way here just to send you home. I don’t want to… inconvenience you.”

“Not more than you’ll be put out if you’re sick for the show,” Harry points out. “But if you’re sure.” He sits.

“Whatever you’d like,” George defers. There’s a bit of silence before a beta waiter bustles over to leave a carafe of water on the table part-way between George’s hand and Harry’s glass, and George fills Harry’s glass before his own. Harry smiles at him. “Erm, so how was Spain?”

“Spanish,” Harry says. “It was alright. Louis and Zayn went to a club for Halloween, but I didn’t much feel like it. They took the good members of KISS, anyway, and I’d rather not wear a costume than have to be Peter Criss. Although I do like cats. Did you do anything?”

“Just Rylan’s birthday, but that was last week,” George says. “Zombie doctors. Doesn’t really make sense, does it? If you were a zombie, you’d just eat the patients.”

“That’s probably why it’s supposed to be scary,” Harry points out. “Unless you were a doctor who fixes zombies and makes them human again.”

“Could you really do that?” George asks. “Because that’s reanimating a corpse.”

“They’re already reanimated corpses, basically,” Harry says thoughtfully. “So probably not. I didn’t go to college, though, so I probably don’t know as much about new wave medicine as I should.”

George giggles, ducking his head. He keeps it bent in polite deference when the waiter comes back over and asks Harry what their party will be eating.

“I think I’ll just have a club sandwich,” Harry says. “And then whatever George wants.”

George’s head snaps up.

There’s an awkward, pulling frisson around the table that Harry doesn’t seem to notice, the waiter’s eyes ping-ponging from Harry to George and back again. “Sir?”

“Whatever you want, George,” Harry says, giving the waiter just enough of a smile that it’s clear he isn’t being dismissed.

“Er,” George says elegantly. “I’ll just have the hot chicken sandwich, I guess? If that’s okay?”

Harry looks to the waiter. “I think that’s it for now, unless you want a starter, George?”

George blinks. “I didn’t—I don’t think so?”

“Okay.” Harry grins. “I prefer afters to starters, personally.”

It’s not really the right atmosphere to feel like a joke, not when the waiter is staring at George like he’s an embarrassment, like somehow he pushed his way into breaking the chain of command and ordering for himself even though they’d both watched with stricken miens as Harry just went ahead and did what he wanted to do. And that was alright, because Harry is not only an Alpha but _Harry Styles_ and he can do whatever he wants, but… George is fairly sure that he won’t be allowed in the Lobby Lounge again anytime soon.

It had better be a damn good chicken sandwich.

Once the waiter’s gone off, George refills his tea from the little pot at his side and keeps a careful eye on Harry’s water glass.

“So,” Harry drawls, long and leading. “Eight siblings and you’ve never mentioned?”

“It’s never exactly come up,” George says defensively. “It’s not liable to need mentioning during—” he lowers his voice to a red-faced whisper—“mating, is it?”

Harry squawks, no regard for volume control at all. “No, I reckon it’s not. I’m just saying; I thought Louis had a lot of siblings, and he only has four.”

“That’s still a lot,” George says respectfully. “And I barely know my eldest, and probably the youngest will have forgotten about me by the time I get home.”

“That’s sad,” Harry says seriously. “What are their names? Are they all omegas, too?”

George shakes his head. “All betas. Just me. Erm, there’s Tom, he’s from my mum’s first marriage, and then Will, he’s a Royal Marine, and me, and my sister Harriet—that’s a bit ironic now, isn’t it? Harry and Harriet. And then my dad got remarried and he and my stepmum have Leo and Archie and the baby, Spenny, Spencer, but before that, or like—it’s complicated, but my stepmum also has Louisa and Annabelle from two other marriages.” George coughs. He’s been dominating the conversation entirely too much. “Erm, I read online you just have a sister?”

Harry smiles as he nods. “Yeah, Gemma, she’s older. She’s at uni, studying science. I bet she’d know about zombie doctors. I’ll have to ask her later. Were you at uni before you auditioned?”

“No, I—I got in, but they didn’t have any space in the omega dorms,” George says quietly. “I just work in a coffee shop.”

“Worked,” Harry corrects. It’s confident, but soft, like he doesn’t want to spook George. “You don’t have to anymore. You probably can’t.” There’s another pause before Harry adds, “Because you’ll be busy being a popstar. If you don’t want to be a popstar after this, I suppose you can go back to working in a coffee shop.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to be a popstar?” George tries, and fails, not to bristle.

“It’s craziness,” Harry says simply, shrugging. His glass is only half-full, and George reaches for the carafe to refill it, but Harry beats him to the punch, refilling his own water without even blinking. George sinks down in his chair a little, chastising himself for his failure even though Harry doesn’t seem to have minded. “It’s traveling all the time, and never sleeping in your own bed, and eating weird foods that give you spots. And spending _all of your time_ with your band. And it’s great, it is, because I love the lads and music and everything, but sometimes it’s hard to spend every moment with someone who—never mind.” Harry goes a bit pink. He shakes his head to sweep his fringe out of his eyes with a swoop of his hand, and George’s eyes catch on the bits and pieces of scattered tattoo ink that dot Harry’s wrist like the wingdings that George himself plays with designing—a padlock, a shamrock, a key, _99p_. “Do you like the lads in your band? They seemed nice when I met them.”

“Yeah,” George says, irrationally frustrated by the asymmetry of Harry’s key and knowing, knowing, that he could design and draw one better. One that looks less like a catfood fish skeleton. “They’re nice. It’s nice to have another omega around, too, you know. I’ve never met another one before.”

“Really?” Harry sounds shocked. “With that many siblings, it’s kind of amazing you’re the only one.”

“Not really,” George says, shrugging. “Out of every twenty people, only three are omegas, and my family there are only thirteen if you count all the stepdads and stepmums and everything. I guess if my dad has another kid, then maybe.”

“Basically, I meant in general,” Harry says. “But that’s a good point. I was never one for maths.” He grins and winks and it sets off a little sparkler in George’s stomach. Maybe that’s what Ella meant by ‘fond.’

“My town’s really small,” George protests. “And dull. Nobody stays if they don’t have to, and it’s mostly all betas.”

“But betas have omega children,” Harry points out. “Like your parents did.”

George blinks at that, frowning a little as the waiter sweeps back and silently places their sandwiches and thin-cut chips in front of them. For as fancy as the Lobby Lounge looks, it’s standard hotel fare in the end, tinseled toothpicks and all. “I guess they do. There weren’t any around my age at school. I suspect… I suspect they were put up for adoption, like Josh was. I don’t know.”

It’s something that George hasn’t thought about in a long time—something he’s _avoided_ thinking about. Because he knows that it’s hard enough to raise that many children, much less needing the special permits and doctors and insurance and treatments involved in raising an omega. He tries, hard, not to think that it’s a part of why his parents split up in the first place, that it was unrelated to the onset of his roly-poly protective fat that drove home to them that he was _really_ an omega.

Harry’s brow furrows. “I always think that’s sad. It’s not anyone’s fault.” He sighs. “I understand it, but I think it’s sad. One of my best friends up at home was adopted. She got into uni in Glasgow, plays field hockey up there.” He smiles. “Don’t ever get kicked in the shin by a field hockey star. I think my bone is still chipped. We were five.”

George can’t help a little giggle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“My town’s small, too,” Harry ventures. “I bet even smaller than yours. We’ve about four roads and five-thousand people. And cows. The first time the lads came up to visit, the cows about scared them to death. City boys, the lot of them. Well. Surburban boys.”

“I don’t have cows,” George agrees. “I have seagulls. They’re quite aggressive. Sometimes they steal my crisps on the beach.”

It’s nice to be able to make Harry laugh, even if George doesn’t think it’s likely to be all that difficult, considering he doesn’t find himself particularly funny and Harry’s laughing at everything anyway. That’s alright; George does it, too. That does seem to be one thing that they have in common.

“I look forward to seeing it sometime,” Harry says, and he reaches across the table, slow slow tentative, until his fingers can cover the back of George’s hand. “If that’s alright?”

It feels strange to think of Harry in Clevedon. Walking up the pier. Along the beach, where George walks with Parisa and Charley and Betsy and has busked for enough tips to get popcorn at the cinema. Past the church, huge and imposing, filled with the nuns who made George do thirty Hail Marys for starting his Heat scenting during classes when he was twelve. He imagines the latticework shadow of the spires falling across Harry’s face, and it doesn’t feel right, casting him into darkness. It feels like Harry’s face would repel it.

It’s not an altogether bad thought, if George is honest with himself. The idea that Harry may be an Alpha, but it doesn’t feel like he’d really _fit_ in the chapel back home.

“Yeah,” George says finally, and he carefully turns his hand over so Harry can grip his fingers. “I can meet your cows.”

Harry squeezes George’s hand. He tries to eat his club sandwich one-handed and a load of streaky bacon and chopped roast chicken avalanche over his chin and onto the plate, and George can’t help the nose-wrinkling laughter that bubbles out of him for it.

“Well, that’s the suavest thing I’ve done all day,” Harry says cheerfully, extricating his hand from George’s. “Just as a warning, you may need to spend portions of your life making sure I don’t walk into the path of oncoming disasters. The older I get, the more accident-prone I seem to become.”

“That’s okay,” George says quietly, a steel string peeling open his ribs at the casual mention of _the rest of George’s life looking after Harry_. “I am, a bit, too,” he offers, halting. “When I went to Costa Rica with my family, I walked around all day with a baby scorpion inside my shoe and didn’t notice. I should have probably died.”

“Oh my god.” Harry’s eyes widen. “The worst thing that’s ever been in my shoe whilst traveling was koala pee.”

George giggles beneath his fringe. “Koala pee?”

“Yeah, the koala liked me too much,” Harry says, and the words are almost slurred by his wide grin. “That was in Australia last spring. I think that was my favorite trip; I got to take Lux on her first lap around the swimming pool and she was so cute. Much cuter than a koala, but not really any less pee.”

George tries to giggle at that, but it gets stuck behind his teeth. “I—yeah, I saw pictures of you with her at Louis’ footie game,” he says carefully. “Is, do you, how many kids… do you want?”

He very carefully looks only at his plate, drawing shapes into his catsup with the end of a chip. Then, slowly, like the needles of a fern opening in the morning, he can feel Harry blooming inside his chest, a little tentative spongy feeling that George can’t quite name without looking up at Harry’s face.

“That’s not really up to me, is it?” Harry asks right back, gentle and deep-voiced. “I mean, I love kids, especially babies, but I don’t get to just, like, decree how many we’ll have. That’s not very fair, is it? So how many do you want?”

George tears apart one of the chips. It leaves grease on his fingers, and the inside is more mealy than fluffy. “Does it matter?”

“Not right now, no,” Harry agrees, and the feeling behind George’s ribs settles in for a long, curled nap like a cat. It doesn’t hurt, but George is aware of the tip of its tail brushing against the bottom of his heart, and he knows that it’ll stay. “I’m really busy, and so are you. So don’t worry about it! I’m busy being a popstar, and you’re busy being a popstar, and if I’m honest, Lux is really territorial and I think she’d be very put out if I started playing with another baby.” Harry pauses. “Unless—god—you’re on suppressors, right? It’s okay if you’re not, I just assumed you were, and like, I _am really_ busy, and—”

“No, I am,” George says quickly. “Don’t worry, I’m very, very—yeah, a lot of suppressors. I’m very much not pregnant right now.”

Harry nods. “That’s good. I mean, not that I wouldn’t be happy, but—erm, yeah. That’s good.”

Harry is so pale and his lips are so wobbly and his eyes are so wide that George can’t help dissolving in giggles of pure  
unfettered  
 _relief_.

“What’s so funny?” Harry asks. His curls flop into his eyes.

George reaches across the table and timidly brushes Harry’s fringe back again into its proper, tousled place. “Nothing’s funny. I’m just—I’m really glad you… I don’t know, it’s silly.”

“Sillier than zombie doctors?” Harry asks, skeptical. His pulse is warm beneath George’s fingertips where they rest beneath the curve of Harry’s jaw. “I somehow doubt that. The only thing I can think of sillier than zombie doctors is like… zombie ducks.”

“You can’t add ‘zombie’ to things and think it’s a thing,” George argues, pulling back to sit in his seat again and pick at the remainder of his sandwich. “I mean, I can say ‘zombie sandwich’ and that sounds silly, but it’s not really, ‘cause it doesn’t make sense. ‘Zombie banana.’ ‘Zombie grapes.’”

“Those aren’t scary,” Harry says. “I’d just eat them. And anyway, they sound like something that’d be in an RTD episode of Doctor Who. The worst monsters.”

“They are!” George agrees happily, and the thing resting under his ribs takes flight: a small, hard-won happiness, shared.

It’s easy, after that, to tell Harry about how rehearsals have been going, all the goss about this year’s crop of X Factor contestants. So easy that it’s a bit scary, because by the time they’ve eaten dessert and drunk their tea, it’s _Harry_ , not George, who leans across the table and puts a hand to the other’s wrist and murmurs, “It’s nearly half-one in the morning; don’t you have rehearsal in like six hours?”

And George does. And he hadn’t even noticed the time. He was in a— _a haze of Harry_ , that pheromonal unreliability that’s haunted George his whole life. It’s the first time it’s happened to him, other than the predictable illness of Heat every month, and this didn’t feel like that.

This was nice. It was—George wouldn’t really mind it going on for another five days. (Or months. Or years. And that’s scary, to want like that, right in the middle of _needing_ to win the X Factor. He can’t let wanting Harry distract him like this. It’s defeating the whole purpose of having Bonded to him at all.) But Harry is funny, when he’s not putting his foot in his mouth, and he tells _terrible_ stories that all seem to involve baby Lux Atkin or Louis Tomlinson or Nick Grimshaw, once he gets from Point A to Point B after several minutes of circling around the trivial details. And it’s okay, because George always accidentally skips from Point A to Point F of his own stories about his brothers and sisters and Parisa and Charley and Betsy. They balance each other.

“Shit,” George mumbles, when Harry points out the time. “Yeah, I do. Thanks for—erm, telling me. Erm, I don’t think there’s, erm… time. To. You know. Tonight. Also I have a cold and you probably don’t want—like, germy.”

Harry smiles. “Yeah, that’s fine. I know you really want to do well tomorrow, to make up for last week. I think that’s ridiculous. You were better than Christopher.”

George shrugs and rolls his eyes. “Is that really saying so much?”

They both laugh conspiratorially.

Harry follows George to the lifts. “I won’t come up, don’t worry,” he says, and he sounds adolescent and nervous. “Just I was wondering if I could—even though we’re not going to mate, like. Can I kiss you?”

George licks his lower lip, his eyes flicking to Harry’s plush mouth. “I’ve a cold.”

“I don’t care,” Harry says cheekily, dimpling. “Can I kiss you?”

(George does like kissing Harry. It’s what had powered him through—yesterday, in bed, yesterday when he’d touched himself he’d thought of kissing Harry. So he’s not liable to say no, is he?) George nips up and touches his lips to Harry’s before Harry can make the first move.

It doesn’t bloom the same kind of swirling warmth that kissing Harry in bed does, but it’s still sweet and _Harry_ and a Harry whose lips are cold from raspberry sorbet. He smells like burning oak curling on the wind and he feels steady and tastes like sour, cold bramblefruit and he’s _delicious_. Harry’s hands press against the small of George’s back, pulling him close enough to deepen the kiss with a light touch of tongue, just enough to tease a reminder of the heady way Harry can cover and consume George completely.

And then Harry pulls back, lips flush but smirking. “That’s enough for one night. It’s late and you have a cold.”

George blinks. And nods. And presses the button for the lift.

“Erm,” he says, eloquently, “If you want to come to the show tomorrow, you can. I mean, obviously you can, they’d never not let you in, but you know what I mean. You can—come see the show. If you want.”

Harry grins and laughs happily, low and raspy in the base of his throat. “Yeah, I think I will. Thank you, George. I’d a lovely time tonight. I’m—I’m really glad you finally wanted to see me again.”

George swallows, looks at Harry’s shoes, and nods. “Yeah. Me, too. ‘Night.”

“Night, George,” Harry murmurs. “Drink a lemon tea in the morning and stay away from dairy, for your throat, with your cold. I—lo—erm, I’ll come by tomorrow, then.”

 

***

The next day, when George bounds off the stage, clutching his guitar to his chest and filled to bursting with energy, the last thing he expects to see is Harry in the corner talking not only to Ella and Caroline, but _Parisa_.

“Hey!” George whisper-shouts, galloping over to them. He slings his guitar over to his back and jumps bodily onto Parisa, smothering her with his arms. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, wizzer!” Parisa laughs, hugging George back. “We haven’t talked in days and I got—I wanted to see you.”

George pulls back after leaving a squeaky, smacking kiss to the top of her head. “Sorry about that. I’ve just been really busy.”

“Well, I know that now,” Parisa says, then adds, with a meaningful look, “Harry’s just been telling me that he was in Spain, and only just arrived in London last night when you had dinner.”

“Yeah, I’ve been coopting George most of the time that he isn’t rehearsing,” Ella admits. “Sorry about that.”

George gives her a smile, too, and leans around where Parisa’s still hugging his waist so he can kiss Ella’s cheek. “You’re going to sing amazingly, Ellabear. Knock ‘em dead. As always.”

She flutters a lipsticky kiss to his cheek back. “Thanks, Georgie. I have to run! Thanks for the luck!”

Once Ella is gone, George turns his attention back to hugging Parisa. She still smells like dark chocolate and seawater and home.

Behind her, the candied cinnamon scent of Harry catches George’s attention and he looks up, swallowing, prepared to let Parisa go—and quickly. But Harry is smiling at them both.

“Hey, you,” Harry whispers to George. “You did awesome. I wish I could play guitar better. You were _really_ good.”

“Thanks,” George murmurs back, his cheeks going pink. Parisa steps back a little, looking up at the both of them.

Harry smiles just enough to make his eyes sparkle, then leans forward to kiss George’s cheek just above the pink mark Ella had left behind. “You’re going to win for sure.”

“Ella is,” George argues.

“Well,” Harry amends, “You’ll at least get third. Third’s pretty good.”

George giggles. “Thanks. Thank you, Harry.” He pauses and glances from Parisa to Harry. “Erm, did you want to… I wasn’t planning on… erm…”

“No, don’t worry about it,” Parisa and Harry say at the same time. Parisa says _I can bunk with Ella, she said, now that Lucy’s gone_ and Harry says, “No, your friend’s here, I can visit with Cazza for a bit and kip at home. I ought to make nice with that ghost in my pipes sometime, anyway.”

George blinks. That’s too easy. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I’m sure I’ll ditch you for Ed Sheeran sometime.” George must make a despondent noise at that, because Harry grins and says, “Or… I’ll bring you along to meet Ed Sheeran sometime?”

George nods, and Harry chuckles under his breath. “Okay, Georgie. We ought to get out of the wings. Nigel gets really cross if you keep hanging about. I speak from experience.”

Later that night, after George has kissed Harry goodbye just outside the hotel bar, Parisa’s eyes following them keenly, it’s almost like being back home when George walks out of the bathroom swaddled in fluffy towels to see Parisa lounging on his bed, belly-down and feet crossed at her ankles, scrolling through George’s twitter feed like there’s no such thing as privacy.

“These people are gross,” she comments with no real passion, gesturing at the screen.

George snorts and scrubs one towel over his hair. “Yeah? Who, the fans or the zealots?”

“Both,” Parisa says. She shuts the laptop and rolls over. Her breasts flatten out beneath the t-shirt she’s commandeered from George’s closet; his new maroon with polka dots because Caroline said that maroon looked nice with his skin. “In different ways.”

“In different ways,” George agrees. He skins into pants beneath his towel and then catches it around the waist to fold over the back of a chair. He’ll put it back tomorrow. Or forget. Either way. He takes a t-shirt of his own and a pair of pyjama trousers out of the closet and steps into the plaids first, one foot at a time. He’s pulling the shirt over his head when Parisa says—

“I expected you to look different.”

George’s head pops out of the neckline, and Parisa looks a little chagrined.

“I know that’s silly,” she says. “But I expected you to look different than you did before.”

“Well,” George says, and he crawls into bed beside her to prop up on one elbow and look down at her. “I have whole new eyebrows, look.” He waggles them. “All threaded and everything. And they whitened my teeth, but they’re still my teeth. And I have an ab now! Did you see? I’m not getting it out again, but it’s there. You can poke it if you want. I’ll flex.”

Parisa laughs. “That’s okay. I don’t need to poke it; I’ll just trust you.” Her eyes are dark and soft when she looks up at George. “Does Harry like your ab?”

“I don’t know,” George admits. “I don’t think he’s seen it. I didn’t have it yet when we Bonded.”

“Have you not seen him since then?” Parisa scoots closer. “I mean, naked-wise.”

“No, I have,” George says, “I just usually leave my shirt on. You know; you’ve met me. You’re one of about four people who’s seen me topless.”

“To the disappointment of tweens everywhere,” Parisa laughs. “I don’t know why you’re so self-conscious, really. You’re not hard on the eyes, George-Porge.”

“Don’t call me that. And I know I’m not, I just don’t think anyone needs to know all my private business.” George smiles at Parisa, but she doesn’t smile back.

“Not even Harry?”

George sighs and flops off his elbow so that he can tuck his face into the side of her neck, one arm wrapped over Parisa’s ribs. “I don’t know. No? I mean, it works just as well without it, doesn’t it? It’s not like we can—see each other anyway. He’s behind me.” He makes a displeased little rumbly noise into Parisa’s shoulder. “Besides, I’ve seen him topless on the internet and there’s no way he’d be impressed with me. I’ve only got normal numbers of nipples.”

Parisa laughs at that. Her fingers thread into George’s hair, and it’s comforting and familiar the way she draws little circles over the nape of his neck with the pad of her thumb instead of scratching up across his scalp with hard acrylic fingernails the way Ella and Caroline both do when they play with his hair. It makes George wonder, errantly, what Harry would do. He has scarcely any fingernails at all, but such long, deft fingers.

“Yeah,” Parisa agrees, “You do have a normal number of nipples, but a lot of good-looking-ness. And no! It does not ‘work just as well’ with your clothes still on!”

“Not all the clothes,” George protests. “Just shirts. And Harry even takes his off, so just my shirt. I take my pants off and everything.”

“Are you like, rushed for time? No, you can’t be,” Parisa says thoughtfully. “It takes you like an hour, with the knotting and stuff. Does Harry not want you to take your shirt off?”

“No, he does. I just don’t want to. I don’t see the point.”

Parisa goggles at that. “There’s a lot of points. What do you mean, you don’t see the point?”

George makes another distressed noise and pushes his face further into her neck. “It’s not like sex could be that great anyway. Either it hurts like fuck—literally—or it feels like mostly nothing. And I don’t—” George cuts himself off. He cuddles up as close as he can to Parisa, and when his forearm accidentally brushes over her chest, he can feel her own nipples pebble up against the cotton of the borrowed t-shirt. It doesn’t make George feel any particular stirring now, but he remembers what it had felt like when Harry touched him. He swallows around a dry lump in his throat and feels guilty that it’s what gives him the courage to say—“I don’t want him to think I’m a slut.”

Parisa sighs, and George can’t quite bring himself to look up at her.

“Do you think that about me?” Parisa asks curiously. She’s stopped playing with George’s hair, now, and her hand lies small and cool and heavy on the crest of his shoulders.

That does make George lift his head. “No! Why would I think that about you?”

“I don’t know. Because I fucked you through your Heats for years even though that’s not how my body’s supposed to work and I did it just ‘cause I wanted to?” Parisa asks. “Because I liked it, until it got too much and was all chaf-y?” George snorts at that and Parisa crosses her eyes at him fondly. “I liked seeing you, and I liked you seeing me. And I liked touching you and getting touched. Does that make _me_ a slut?”

“No,” George says right away, and then pauses. There’s a long, quiet moment when their breathing sorts out into something George can shuffle like playing cards back into their proper order. “But it’s different for you than me.”

“Why?” Parisa asks. “How is it different?”

George bites the inside of his cheek. It’s still rough along the line of his teeth, the skin soft and pliant from being bitten away so often. Parisa went to the same school as he did, at least until they were sixteen. They sat through the same Literature classes learning about the omega Helen whose wanton scent led to the destruction of Troy, the same Biology courses about the way the same omega hormones that led to the Heat made them insensible to logic and reasoning compared to their beta and Alpha superiors, the same Life Skills classes that stressed the importance of keeping one’s omega self demure and domestic and covered as much as possible so as not to invite untoward advances. Parisa had learned how to resist him—why she _had_ to, for the good of everyone.

(She hadn’t listened, obviously, but that was something George had been evangelized to understand was his own failing, not hers. Although he’s never been quite clear just how that was his fault, because he can’t control the scenting no matter how hard he tries and it’s not like he’d ever, ever, ever asked her to do anything she didn’t want to do. She’d always just… been there when he needed someone.)

“It just is,” George says, stilted. “You’re allowed to like it if you want.”

“So are you.” Parisa sounds indignant, and she shifts until George has no choice but to look her in the eye. “George, you’re allowed to like whatever you like. You know that, right?”

George started shaking his head before she’d even finished speaking. “It’s different for me.”

“Why?” It’s sharp and jagged and needling at the space under George’s ribs. “How?”

“Because!” George squirms, awkward; he sits up and tucks his knees in to his chest so he can keep away from the world. There’s something caught under his tongue and it’s bitter. “You’re allowed to like it sometimes and not like other times. If I like it with Harry, then I have to _always_ like it and want it and sometimes I—usually I don’t—I don’t think I will. Always. Like it. So it’s easier if I never like it.”

Parisa looks as though she’s been shocked, like the time that George accidentally spilled a piping-hot coffee over both of their hands, or the time a gull had dropped half a gutted fish right into her hair on the beach, or the first time they’d tried to change one of Leo’s nappies and didn’t know how weeing reflexes worked. A bit sick. A bit cold. Like she’d cover her eyes if it weren’t already too late.

“Do you really think—is Harry like that?” she asks carefully.

“Alphas are.”

Parisa nods slowly. “But is _Harry_ like that? I’m not saying he isn’t, because I don’t know him and you do, but—”

“I don’t know,” George says. His skin itches. “He’s an Alpha, isn’t he? So he must be.”

With a quiet exhalation through teeth, Parisa wraps her arms around George’s arms from behind, her chin hooked over his shoulder and her own arms and elbows and hands bracketing over George’s. He’s grown taller than she is, but not by much. Her fingers can still circle all the way around his wrists.

“I’m not going to say he isn’t,” Parisa says softly, after a long while. “Because you’re right; there are a lot of Alphas like that in the world. But I think, as someone who knows you and who loves you and who was fully prepared to loathe Harry forever for knotting you without discussing it first, I think that he cares about you? Or at least he wants you to be happy with the Bond? I don’t think he wants to hurt you, George. I don’t think he does.”

George swallows. He picks some flaking clear varnish off the crest of one fingernail. “He might by accident, though.”

“So could anyone!” Parisa exclaims, giving George a squeeze. “George, you could wake up to take a wee and trip on a slipper and bash your own eye out on the corner of the dressing table. _I_ could strangle you right now. You could get poisoned by a fan giving you some weird stickers or something. Josh could think you’re after JJ and just murder you. If you get bogged down in thinking about all the ways you could accidentally get hurt—you’d never get anything done! And that’s just, that isn’t being the Georgie I know. You _auditioned_. _Alone_. You came to London by yourself and you roomed with a total stranger Alpha just to get to be in this competition. You have always done everything so bravely that sometimes it was stupid. Don’t you remember that scorpion in your shoe? What’d you do with it?”

“I smashed it with a Nalgene bottle,” George mumbles.

“See? That was incredibly stupid and it could have accidentally or on purpose killed you!” Parisa laughs, and George has to laugh, too, both of their sets of lungs moving asynchronously up against each other where they’re still embracing. “But it was brave, because Harriet was there. That’s what you do, George, and I hate thinking you’ve lost it just because of some curly-haired boy bander.”

Smile still keeping him from biting the inside of his cheek, George fades a little to admit—“He’s scarier than a scorpion.”

“Well, that’s just silly,” Parisa says. “Have you seen him? He’s like a giant baby husky puppy. He’s not scary.”

“You’re not his Bond,” George says quietly. “I don’t think anyone will ever… see what—it’s different for me.”

Parisa sobers again and that and gently kisses George behind the ear, letting her soft lips linger. “I know. And if you ever need me to commit a very on-purpose murder, I will do it, no questions asked. Well, a minimum of questions asked, mostly regarding like, alibi coordination. But I’ll do it, is the point I’m making. If I’m wrong about Harry.” She nuzzles George. “But I don’t think I am. And I wouldn’t be okay with just anyone being your Bond, you know. You’re kind of special to me.”

George smiles and noses the side of her forearm, since that’s what he can best reach. “You’re special to me, too, you goober.”

“Good. I’d better be. And now that that’s all squared away…” Parisa lets go of him and bounces back on the mattress, “Let’s look up the video of you singing Taylor Swift songs tonight on YouTube, and then torrent an illegal copy of _Sinister_ and watch that so we’re nice and scared before we tuck in!”

George laughs and shakes out his limbs, all heavy and tired from the adrenaline of performing having ebbed away. He flops over to lie on his back and let Parisa bounce around the room to get the laptop and switch off the lights, and he smiles as he watches her belt out “Firework” at the top of her voice—entirely differently than when Ella had, earlier on stage, or when George had caught Harry singing it softly under his breath in the corridor. “That sounds great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this chapter took an extra week! I didn't want to rush last week's with The Victory Tour and put out something shorter (again) or lower-quality. I hope you're still sticking around! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should be just about the last late chapter! This coming weekend, I'll be speaking at Comic-Con, so there won't be an update, but after that, I should be able to get back to the original once-weekly posting. :) Thanks for sticking around, and if you'll be at SDCC, come say hello!

_“My,” said little red riding hood, “What big eyes you have.”_

_“The better to see you with, my dear,” said the Wolf. “Even in the dark.”_

_“My,” said little red riding hood, “What a big nose you have.”_

_“The better to smell you with, my dear,” said the Wolf. “Your scent is sweeter than those lovely flowers.”_

_“My,” said little red riding hood, “What a big knot you have.”_

_“The better to keep you with, my dear,” said the Wolf._

 

***

Parisa stayed with George for most of the week between the Fifth and Sixth Live Shows, on her term break from uni and more than happy to get the X Factor experience she felt she deserved. (And really, George thinks privately, she did deserve it more than some of the other acts. OSB would have been better hotelmates and contestants than Christopher or District 3. But maybe George is biased, since he’d grown up with Parisa and her sister and their parents never treated him like he were anything other than normal.) She commandeered George’s bed for the majority of her visit, cuddling up in a little ball with most of George’s covers stolen to wrap around herself.

On Friday morning, while she’s singing in the shower and George was double-checking that she’d packed all of her belongings to leave from King’s Cross, Jaymi looks up from his own bed, where he sat scrolling through the Union J twitter feed.

“I’ll bet Harry’s glad she’s leaving.”

George looks up and frowns. “I don’t think so. We had lunch with him yesterday. He seemed to like her.”

“Right, but I mean… she’s been in your bed,” Jaymi says. “Which means he hasn’t been. I’ll bet he’s glad to get back in it. And your pants.”

“Hey!” George colors red. “It’s not, he’s—he hasn’t said anything. And if he really wanted it, like, he could have told her to go play with Ella for an hour.”

“No, he couldn’t,” Jaymi says. “He’s your Alpha, not hers. And they don’t know each other.”

“Sure they do,” George says. “They had lunch yesterday.”

Jaymi looks exasperated in a way that’s become comfortingly familiar over the last two months; it’s the way he looks at JJ when he doesn’t understand simple directions or misstates someone well-known’s name—Rara del Llama, honestly—and the look he gives Josh for indulging JJ. George has seen him give it to Olly when they’re chatting on Skype, too, and it’s something that he sort of considers a sign of Jaymi’s fondness, because he’s _never_ seen that look towards anyone whom Jaymi didn’t consider permanent enough a fixture in his life not to be offended by receiving it.

“That’s not what I meant,” Jaymi sighs, “And you know it. I’m just saying, you’d better do some really freaky fucking tomorrow to make up to Harry for letting another person in your bed all week.”

It’s not as though that’s something George doesn’t already know. In his own shower, before Parisa’s, he’d gone over every inch of himself with his razor and best soap and moisturizer so that he can properly make up to Harry that they’ve been kept apart. George still doesn’t see what the big deal is, really, that Harry’s after, but if he can keep his Alpha mollified, then it’s worth it. And he does always like the way his clothing feels on clean-shaven skin that first day. The itchiness of it all growing back is a pain in the arse, sometimes literally, but Harry hasn’t seen George at his very best yet, and George is keen for him to approve. Plus, it must be something that Harry likes, George reasons; he’s pretty well-shaven himself. Although that might be a general ‘boy band’ thing, since JJ is about the hairiest Alpha that George has ever seen, but he waxes his chest for the show.

“Yeah, I know,” George says. “I, it’s—I know.”

“You should blow him,” Jaymi says idly. “He’ll forgive anything if you blow him. I would.”

George blinks. His fingers slip a little as he folds one of the camisoles Parisa had left strewn on a chair. “I… don’t—what’s—”

“Oh, my god, poor Harry,” Jaymi sighs. “I always forget how innocent you are. A blowjob, George, give him a blowjob. Fellatio. Put your mouth on his doodle.”

“Ew!” George’s shoulders go up like hackles. “That’s disgusting! Why would you—why would I—why would _he_ , but why would _I_? Ew! No! No.”

“I’m just saying,” Jaymi says blithely. “He’d love it.”

“No!” George shudders and suppresses an actual gag. “That’s-- _come_ comes out of, if I’m thinking of—if by ‘doodle’ you mean—”

“Yeah, I do, and that’s the point,” Jaymi says, rolling his eyes. “You suck on it until he comes? God, you two must have the most boring sex in the entire world.”

“Ella says she figures it’s just flaily,” George says primly. “And I’m sorry I’m not _disgusting_. Or actually I’m not sorry I’m not disgusting, ‘cause that’s disgusting. And if Harry’s bored with me, he can tell me himself.”

“Look at you,” Parisa says, coming out of the bathroom in a haze of steam from the shower, “Getting bold.”

George goes pink again. It’s true. Yesterday at lunch, Harry’s hand had rested on George’s leg during dessert, and George didn’t even jump when Harry’s thumb slipped lightly onto the inside of George’s thigh.

“It’s cute,” Parisa says to Jaymi, like George isn’t even in the room. “He’s like a blooming flower.”

“I am not a flower, and I’m not _blooming_ ,” George snaps. “And it’s not even bold, it’s just… italics. I’m not at bold yet.”

“You are such a geek,” Jaymi groans, and finally stands up from the bed. He ruffles George’s hair on his way to the door. “I don’t know how you even function.”

George doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to fix his hair. Parisa only messes it up again as she comes around behind him to riffle through the bag he’s painstakingly packed. She pulls out a camisole and shimmies into it before wrapping her arms around George’s waist and kissing the back of his neck amiably.

“I like your italics,” she says. “It’s good to see you leaning Harry’s way. I really expected to hate him. I did hate him, like, sixty percent, when I got here. But damn, he is a charming son of a bastard, isn’t he?”

It’s not a turn of phrase George would have used, but he ducks his head to giggle anyway. “I guess so. He’s nice.”

“And fit.”

“He’s… okay,” George says grudgingly. Parisa levels him with an eyebrow as she puts on her earrings. “Yeah, no, he’s… got a symmetrical face. Good hair.”

Parisa rolls her eyes. “Narcissist. Just… I’m glad you’re with someone who seems nice and like he likes you and, I don’t know. Doesn’t mind that you’re such a geek. I mean, honestly, you talked about Lord of the Rings for like ten minutes at lunch yesterday and he _corrected you_ and you conceded the point that he was right. I’ve never seen that happen.”

“What, someone know more Tolkien than me?”

“Someone listen to you talk about Tolkien.”

George makes a face. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting on a train?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Parisa grins and leans in to kiss George’s cheek. “Keep in touch better, goober. We’re all missing you. I think Spenny’s forgetting your face.”

George refrains from pointing out that Spencer is only eight months old and probably never really recognized his face anyway. “I will. Let me know when you get in.”

Parisa winks as she wheels her luggage to the door. “Yeah, I texted Harry the same.”

“Hey!” George’s indignity falls on the door instead, Parisa already disappeared. He harrumphs just to harrumph, and readies himself to go to rehearsals. He’s started wearing skinnier jeans lately, befitting of his boy band employ, and they take a lot longer to put on than normal jeans. That’s something he should ask Harry, really. He doesn’t even understand how Harry can get his on and off without bruising.

They are surprisingly comfy, though, George thinks several—several—hours later, still standing and holding his guitar so they can work out tech for the million lights that had seemed like a good idea for their Coldplay tune until, oh, a few—a few—hours ago, when it turned out that setting all of the grips and gels is a nightmare. It’s like the tightness of his jeans is helping George to keep his knees straight. Given how many hours in a day One Direction work, maybe Harry’s onto something.

“Alright, guys,” Louis Walsh finally says. “I think that’s as good as we’re gonna get, and we need to let District 3 on for their turn. Go ahead and get some food and rest. Don’t disappoint me tomorrow.”

George finally sets his guitar down and straightens his arms with relief. The bones crackle from being in position for so long. He sags over a bit, and, yes, the jeans hold him up.

“You okay, Georgie?” Oh, no, that’s Josh holding him up. “I heard your joints pop from across the stage. Is your Heat pain starting?”

George shakes his head. “No, I have two weeks. Wait, I’ve never seen you get achy or anything; when was your Heat?”

Josh pulls a face. “That’s private and I don’t like this new trend of talking about PHS symptoms in public.”

George goggles. “You literally gave a detailed account of how JJ was licking the inside of your ear while you were mating in the shower not half an hour before you joined us all for yogurt and granola. I’ve been put off yogurt and granola for the rest of my life because of your love of TMI, and you won’t tell me when you had a Heat?”

“That’s correct,” says Josh. He lets go of George, but keeps rubbing his hands briskly over George’s arms as though to help him regain bloodflow. “It’s undignified to talk about medical things in public. It’s one of the three Impolite M’s.”

“That’s not a thing,” says George. “What are you on about?”

“Medical, money, and the municipal stances,” recites Josh. “Come on, didn’t your parents tell you not to talk about the three Impolite M’s?”

“No.” George follows Josh off the stage and over to Jaymi and JJ, deep in tutelage of JJ’s singing part, demonstrated by Jaymi. “We mostly talked about like, changing schools because of the bullies and how fast bones heal on omegas and like… insurance. We talked about all of the M’s. And the R’s.”

“Reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic?” Josh asks. “That always bothered me, because only one of them is an R. It’d be like if I said ‘the three M’s’ and it was medical, finances, and politics.”

“It is,” George assures him. “That is what you’re saying. But no; religion, rights, and Roddenberry.”

Josh rolls his eyes and tucks himself into JJ’s side, shooing Jaymi off before leaning down to nose at JJ’s cheekbone until he smiles. From nestled behind JJ’s ear, Josh looks over to George again. “That isn’t a real thing. Mine is.”

“No, it isn’t,” George says in the same breath as Jaymi. And then to him, “D’you even know what we’re talking about?”

“No,” Jaymi says. “But I’d believe you over Josh over whether something’s real.”

Even as Josh is loudly protesting Jaymi and they’re all being shepherded to the canteen for a quick lunch before their last-minute wardrobe fittings, George feels a purring sense of satisfaction that Jaymi would take his side in anything, even if it’s just over Josh, another omega, and even if it’s over something silly. It’s still over someone that Jaymi has known his whole life; it’s still something, it’s still George. He’s known that Jaymi and JJ put up with him because he makes up a fourth of Union J—well, he made them Union J, really; before him, they were a band that didn’t make it just as much as he was a boy who didn’t make it—but for as much as their name implied equality, George only really felt a kinship with Josh. He _liked_ Jaymi and JJ was alright, but there was a divide there.

Maybe it wasn’t as deep as George had thought. Maybe it had only come from being new, and not from being George.

(Or maybe Jaymi just likes ribbing Josh, really, reminds George’s brain in a quiet dark voice. But he’d like to take the inch he’s been offered.)

George beams. “Thanks, Jaymi.”

“You’re such a sap,” is all Jaymi says in return. He hooks an arm around George’s neck and chivvies him the rest of the way down the long cinderblock corridor. “I don’t know how Harry deals with you.”

“I haven’t been sappy around him yet.”

“What, really? No reminders of your week-iversaries or crying with joy while you’re knotted together or braiding that lush hair of his?”

“N-no,” says George slowly. “I’m—people don’t do that.” Jaymi looks both confused and suspiciously innocent. “What, did Olly do that?”

“Either Olly or I might have done those things,” Jaymi says evenly. “He likes styling hair and I like having my hair styled, sue me.”

“You’re weird,” George mumbles, taking his toastie from the beta at the counter and trodding along to follow Josh and JJ to a table. “You’re all weird. _You’re_ all the sappy ones. ‘S just Bonding, isn’t it? Any morons can do it. You all did.”

“Hey,” interjects JJ. “Yeah, anyone can do it, but it’s not like Bonding makes people compatible. Josh and I are compatible. Jaymi and Olly are compatible. We didn’t even know each other before, and we mightn’t have met without Bonding. I like to think of it as something that helps bring people to who they need.”

“I don’t need Harry.” George tears into his sandwich. “He’s nice, and everything, but I don’t need him.”

“We needed Harry,” JJ points out. “Because we need you. We’re shit without you, just being honest lads, and without Harry, we’d’ve lost you in Week Three and we’d be out. We all need Harry.”

George swallows a mouthful of hot tea—better for his throat than coffee—and looks down at his knees through the honeycomb waxed iron of the industrial tabletop. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know that, considering it was the whole reason he’d agreed to Bond to Harry in the first place, but the way JJ so bluntly stated the facts still whittled facts to their points in a way that George never quite could. But it left so much unsaid in the four words: _we all need Harry_ \--George, don’t mess this up for all of us; George, you really can’t make it alone; George, we might be shit without you, but you’re shit without Harry. “Yeah. I guess.”

“I mean, we need Harry so we can keep you,” JJ clarifies. “All the time.”

“Not just three-quarters.” Jaymi knocks his knee into George’s beneath the table, and it feels like years since that made George blush, that first night that he met the rest of Union J, still coming out of a Heat. “One-hundred percent George, one-hundred percent of the time. Even when you’re snoring all night.”

“Or miss your cues,” adds Josh.

“Or correcting people’s film trivia,” says JJ. “It’s not my fault I haven’t seen films.”

“Not the point, James,” says Jaymi.

“Right,” says JJ, by way of apology. “The point is, it’d make sense if Harry made you a bit sappy. I think you both deserve a bit of sappy. The white knight riding in at the last second so we could keep our George.”

“I think George did the riding.” Jaymi spoons some soup into his mouth even as George splutters.

“Don’t tease him,” Josh says. “He should be on his game when he sees Harry, since that knot’s our good luck charm.”

“Think you could cut it off and put it on a keychain for us, Georgie?” Jaymi asks. “Like a rabbit’s foot?”

George’s face is magenta. “No! That’s awful!”

“I thought all you omega’s lib types were antinodulists,” Jaymi teases, poking George in the shoulder. It hurts, and isn’t as funny as he thinks it is. “So good to know.”

George frowns and peels apart bits of his sandwich, ignoring the J’s as he answers a text from Harry with the best time to come by for a visit tonight.

He can’t help thinking that Harry’s never joked about who and what George is the way Jaymi and JJ and even Josh have. Harry barely seems to acknowledge George’s omega status at all, except when they’re actually fucking.

It’s weird.

But George can’t pretend anymore, even to himself, that he doesn’t like it.

 

***

All the same, George paces around the room later as he waits for Harry to arrive. He bites at his pinkie nail, too, a bad habit that he’d tried to give up playing guitar. But all joking aside, Jaymi had a point—Harry mightn’t have complained, but George has denied him mating for a week and there’s no way Harry will settle for anything else.

And that’s—George is alright with that, because Harry hasn’t ever hurt him and he knows, now, that orgasms are mostly dull, but he also hasn’t denied Harry before and the thought of how much of a frenzy may be coming has his stomach in lurchy loops.

Just past half-seven, there’s a knock at the door, and George opens it to find Harry beaming at him, wearing a white t-shirt with skinny jeans so tight they look painted on, and a brown leather bomber jacket with a lambskin collar. He has sunglasses clipped into the neckline of his shirt, and they knock against George’s own tee and baggy jumper when Harry leans in to give George a warm hug.

“Hi,” he says, slow and earnest as always. “How are you?”

“Well, thanks,” George says. He lets Harry in, and shuts the door behind him, making sure that it locks with the Do Not Disturb sign hanging out front. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” Harry says. “I guess I’m one of the Most Fascinating People of 2012. That’s a compliment, I think, isn’t it?”

“I’d say so,” George agrees. “Congratulations. There’s a lot worse things to be than fascinating.”

“Could be boring,” Harry says. “Of course, it might be fascinating like ‘bizarre and overhyped,’ and that would not be as nice.”

“I’m sure that’s not it,” George defers. “You aren’t that overhyped.”

Harry laughs, sounding delighted. “But I am bizarre?”

George pictures Harry letting him order for himself at the Lobby Lounge. “There are things you do that aren’t strictly normal. But,” he admits quietly, “I don’t mind that.”

“Good,” Harry says. “If you don’t mind, then I don’t really care who does.”

And it’s annoyingly easy, hearing that, to step closer and kiss Harry, first on the cheek and then, when he settles his hands on George’s hips, on the corner of his mouth. Harry sighs happily against George’s lips and walks him backwards to the bed, bomber jacket and sunglasses falling onto the floor with Harry’s boots on their way.

Harry slides one hand beneath George’s back, the tips of his fingers and the pad of one thumb warm over the curve of George’s bum where it dimples in above his hips; one of his strong, firm thighs slips in between George’s legs to give him just enough leverage to keep them pressed together as Harry rolls them so that George is splayed over Harry, hips to hips and ribs to ribs and legs interlocked.

George pushes up on his hands and opens his eyes. Beneath him, Harry’s heart is beating where George can feel it, and after a minute’s pause in the kissing, Harry’s eyes open. They’re shiny and dark, the green bright. His breath puffs against George’s slack mouth.

“You alright, Georgie?”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Harry’s red, kiss-stained lips curve up into a smile. “Just kiss me.”

That, George can do. Kissing Harry is—not _comfortable_ , but it’s something that settles something in George, the buzzing inside of his bones that prods at him whenever Harry isn’t near and urges him to wonder about where Harry is, who Harry’s with, what Harry’s doing, why he isn’t doing those things with George. When George is kissing Harry, at least he knows. The part of George that is Bonded to Harry is soothed by the scent of Harry’s Alphaness so close, clouding all around George hotter and sweeter as Harry holds George closer or kisses deeper. But the part of George that just—well, Harry is nice to be around; he’s a cheerful person and he asks questions about George and his life, something most people have never done.

George likes Harry.

He doesn’t love him.

He doesn’t _trust_ him; he’s still an Alpha, he still has a knot and power and aura and domain and property.

But he likes him. He likes Harry at least as much as he likes Jaymi or JJ or Josh, or maybe even as much as he likes Ella or Caroline. He isn’t Parisa, and never can be. All the same… Harry doesn’t have to be Parisa. He can be—this—and George will like kissing him. It’s easy to settle into the warm almondine cocoon of Harry’s arms and let his muscles relax happily as Harry’s big hands run circuits over George’s arms and shoulders and the top of his back, following along the indents of his shoulder blades’ wings with his thumbs and pressing only enough to make George purr against Harry’s lips.

Harry drags his mouth away, leaving tiny kisses on the top bow of George’s lip and the corner of his mouth before nosing softly at the soft, feathered hair at George’s temple. “Is this okay?”

George nods. “Yeah. I like it.”

Harry’s answering grin is blinding. “Yeah? Good.” His eyelashes flutter in a long, slow blink before he rubs George’s shoulders again and asks, “Could I move my hands at all, or d’you not—I really want you to like it, this time.”

He’s asking. He’s asking what George would like.

And George doesn’t really know.

“Yeah,” he decides quietly. “Yeah, you can move your hands. Of course.”

Harry hums low in his throat, a rumble straight from his Earth’s apple that makes George’s toes curl. George tucks his face down against the side of Harry’s neck as big hands smooth down the stretch of George’s spine, tucking just barely under the hem of his t-shirt so that they’re touching skin-on-skin for the first time since they’d Bonded, really. At the touch, they both exhale, like the room had been waiting with bated breath. George feels branded by the whorls in Harry’s fingertips.

“Okay?”

George nods, the tip of his nose smudging a line up the column of Harry’s neck and bringing up goosebumps where his breath tickles. “Yeah.” He pauses. “Thank you.”

“I want you to like it,” Harry murmurs. He swallows, and George is unduly fascinated by the syrup-slow bob of that Alpha Earth’s apple, the way it belies Harry’s feelings and carries his freckles with it when he moves or speaks or breaths or gets nervous. “I want—I want you to like me. You don’t have to, or anything, I’d just… I really want you to like me.”

There isn’t anything George can say, so he doesn’t. The Earth’s apple bobs again, and George touches his lips to it once, curious and gentle and quiet in his silence so it doesn’t blare. Harry hums again, and there’s a buzz against George’s lips that makes him startle back with a giggle.

Harry’s cheek dimples. “Tickle?”

George nods. “Yeah. That’s—it didn’t hurt, then?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, I like that a lot. I even like a little teeth, but more like, on the side of my neck and not the middle there.” He breathes enough that George feels like he’s lifted with it from his perch atop Harry. “What do you like, George?”

His fingertips are hot against the skin of George’s back beneath his t-shirt.

“I don’t know.” George shrugs the best he can without falling onto Harry completely. His face is hot and the back of his neck feels cold. “Kissing’s good.”

There’s a rustle on the sheets as Harry shifts a little, and George has to reseat over Harry’s thighs so he doesn’t slip and go crashing down on Harry’s chest chin-first. Harry’s hands span nearly the full width of George’s back from where they’re carefully holding George’s hips, guiding him where to sit, thumbs still tucked under George’s t-shirt but fingers just barely over the waistline of George’s jeans to rest on the curve of George’s bum.

“Glad kissing’s good,” Harry murmurs. “What’s your favorite way to be kissed?”

“Erm,” George halts. “On the mouth?”

Harry laughs brightly. It’s almost too loud for how close George is. “Well, I guess that’s a good answer. Better than like, the elbow, basically.”

George giggles and ducks his head, shifting his weight onto one hand so he can offer the other elbow to Harry. “Oooh!”

Soft look in his eye, Harry gamely kisses George’s elbow. “Do anything for you?”

“No,” George says. “I think I still like better being kissed on the lips.”

Harry licks his own. “Come down here and let me, then. If you want.”

And George does want. Harry’s lips are soft and warm and he doesn’t wear sticky lipgloss that tastes like cherry medicine. He leans down to press his mouth to Harry’s again, kissing in tentative little nibbles that make their noses brush. Harry sighs, his hands slipping beneath George’s t-shirt again to rub so gently over his skin that George shivers with it, tucking his mouth away.

Harry chases it, kissing George’s lower lip with his own plush mouth before catching it with teeth lightly to make George gasp. “Nice, innit?”

George squeaks and just catches Harry’s mouth again, too shy to try a bite of his own. So Harry doesn’t again, one warm hand burning its way up the length of George’s spine and back down again, slowly making its way around to George’s ribs where he’s ticklish. He jerks away again on a giggle when Harry’s fingertips brush over the soft space beneath his ribs, and Harry huffs a laugh against George’s cheek.

“Okay,” Harry says. “Good to know.” He tucks his hand down over George’s hip again, but touches his tongue to George’s lip, a tiny flit of movement and warmth and George is surprised he doesn’t taste the same as his Alpha smell, all almond and burning leaf smoke. He keeps waiting for the rest of the kiss, nestled down against Harry’s chest and hips squared to hips, but it doesn’t come. Harry seems much more focused on the smoothness of George’s skin down at his hips and mapping out the dimples at the top of his bum.

So George kisses instead, opening one eye to look at Harry under his lashes as he tries out his own tongue. Just a touch, just enough to see if Harry’s paying attention at all.

He is. Harry rumbles a soft, happy sound at that and tightens his arms around George a little, his cheeks going pink in George’s limited vision. The kiss deepens, and George closes his eyes again, satisfied that he’s doing this properly, satisfied that he’s making Harry happy enough to just let him be, satisfied with the kiss. It’s a good one, the kind that George and Parisa would sometimes use to chase away boredom, enough to occupy George’s thoughts with a bright softness that keeps everything else at bay: the doubts about what will come after the kiss ends, what might happen at the show tomorrow, whether it’s exciting enough to Harry. George knows the answer to the last because Harry’s hands have stopped roving over his sides, resting instead on the hollow of his back, the tips of two long fingers just barely hiding beneath the waist of George’s jeans so they’re blazing hot against his skin.

Harry makes another quiet, happy noise and shifts again. And George feels it now: Harry is hardening up beneath him, responding to the seeping sweet-citrus scent of George being kissed. The way Harry is lying means George can’t do anything except let his weight press him down against where Harry is thickening, hot between his legs and up against George’s front. His Alpha scent is thickening, too, growing sweeter notes as Harry’s arousal stirs up, taking on round edges of sugar pumpkin and vanilla and roasty-slow molasses that make George feel like he’s buzzing. One of Harry’s hands moves—the hand not teasing at the elastic of George’s pants—up to slide into George’s hair, short blunt nails scratching enough to make George sigh.

Down at the end of the bed, their toes knock together when Harry shifts again and George moves with him, trying to give Harry room.

“No,” Harry whispers, slurring against George’s lips. “S’good.”

The hot, hard line of Harry’s cock is pressing up against George’s belly. Until he shifts again, hands carefully bringing George with him, shifting until George has to grasp at Harry’s shoulders instead of the mattress behind his head. And then Harry is hard and weighty and just between George’s legs, too, _present_ enough that George is finally drawn enough out of his head, out of the kiss, that he can feel his own small cock flushed and pushing out at the front of his jeans, too, right where Harry will be able to feel him.

George pulls back and tucks his flaming face into Harry’s neck. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Harry whispers. “Is this okay?”

George bites his lip, hesitating. The hand Harry had buried into George’s hair strokes down George’s arm instead. Harry runs the tip of one finger over the back of George’s thumb. Between them, Harry’s cock twitches. Before he can answer, Harry turns his face and kisses behind George’s ear to make him shiver, a sweet-tinged shudder that bumps his cock up against the long side of Harry’s.

“It’s okay,” he decides softly, still just talking to Harry’s neck. He doesn’t know what _it_ is, but Harry is warm and strong and smells good and George knows, now, doesn’t he, that orgasms don’t always hurt.

Harry rumbles so low in his chest that George can feel it echo through his own ribs, and it sounds like the purr of an immense jungle cat, the same tiger that George has always thought Harry to be. He kisses George’s neck again, sucking softly, just enough to bring blood to the surface. And carefully, like he’s trying not to spook the moment away, Harry presses his palm down over the base of George’s back, urging his hips forward so they rub together through their clothes.

It’s how George had rubbed against the bed when he thought of how Harry touched him. His face burns red with the inexplicable feeling that _he knows, he knows, he knows_.

Harry’s breath is hot against George’s neck. “You feel good. I like your body, George, how it moves. I like knowing you’re into it. Do I feel good?”

George buries his face closer into Harry’s neck, until he can hardly breathe, smothered in the Alpha smell of him and the heat rising from his skin and the embracing closeness of his arms. Harry does feel—it feels a lot, a cocoon, a bubble, a cloud of heat that isn’t Heat but feels like the growing edges of it, rough and pulling like taffy on George’s bones. And there’s a—tremor, a frisson. Something tickling at the behind places of his body, under his organs and in the backs of his bones, an electric wriggly feeling that isn’t unpleasant at all, but makes George feel like he wants to burst out of his skin.

Harry keeps kneading gently so that George will keep thrusting down against him. Every time the tapered round tip of George’s sensitive little dick catches against the plummy lip of Harry’s big Alpha cock, the breath punches out of George with a little surprised whimper. Where their chests are flush, George’s nipples pebble up, needy.

This is what George had done when he tried to touch himself, thinking of the way Harry felt.

But it hadn’t come close, he thinks faintly, it was the same thing but not the _same_.

“I like how you sound,” Harry praises quietly. “Wish I could see your face. Can I see your face?”

George shakes his head, still blushing fiercely, eyes shut against Harry’s shoulder as he thrusts down with a slight swivel of his hips so their cocks slide along the length of each other through their too-tight-for-this jeans, Harry twice the length of George and twitching hot and powerful.

Harry kisses the side of George’s head. “That’s okay. I just want you to like it, Georgie. I always want you to feel good around me.”

George nods, but can’t say anything. He clutches his fingers into Harry’s t-shirt at the shoulders, arched enough that he can keep driving them tipsy-tenderly together to feel—whatever this is, this almost-Heat, these shocks of current and cold—without his chest rubbing against the suddenly rough cotton of his t-shirt and heavy woolen heat of his jumper. The hand not on George’s hips very slowly dips under the material and Harry slides his hand, nice and cool and steady, lightly over George’s ribs and up to his chest. He dances his fingertips across George’s collarbone under the shirts, but doesn’t touch his chest. “Is this okay?”

George nods, eyes still closed. He can’t hide completely from Harry at this angle, but he can still avoid knowing he’s being stared at if he doesn’t look back.

“Hey,” Harry whispers. “You’re gorgeous. Will you kiss me again?”

George exhales with relief and dips his head down until their noses touch. Harry is smiling when George’s lips touch to his mouth. This time, there’s no hesitancy before the kiss pushes in deep again, giving and taking with long soft-suckling touches of tongue and teeth and lips and breath. George is dizzy with it, dizzy with _Harry_ and almond and autumn leaves, when finally Harry’s thumb makes a curious, gentle drag across one of George’s puffed-up-fat nipples.

Heat—  
It feels like Heat, it does, the same urgent thrumming _need_ of it.  
George whimpers, trying to pull away from the feeling without losing the kiss or the touch, the rub, Harry.

“Shhh,” Harry murmurs, in between George pressing kisses against his mouth and refusing to open his eyes. “You’re okay, I promise.”

George bites at Harry’s lip just to have something to ground him, teeth sinking against the lush of it. Harry groans back, touching his thumb to George’s chest again and tracing a light circle, the rest of his long fingers spread out to measure the stutter in George’s breath.

And it does stutter, because something is building in George, and it’s so familiar he’d know it anywhere but not like this—the same thing but not the same—and he’s trying so, so hard not to be afraid, because he wants to understand why Harry seems to think this is so important. Why Parisa said that it was worth it. Why Josh can’t seem to get enough. Besides, when he’d been alone, it felt like _nothing_. A stiff breeze.

Harry groans against George’s mouth when his cock gives a particularly thick twitch against George. “Are you close? I’m really close, but I want—I _really_ want you to actually—but are you going to? ‘Cause if you’re not, then can I and then I’ll—I can take care of you after?”

George licks his dry lip. “I—I don’t know. You can, you can come if you want; I just… I don’t know.” Harry groans again and it buzzes all through George, the heady brown sugar scent of Harry’s body on the edge of orgasm shushing against George’s skin like extra hands. The hand that’s rested on George’s waist this whole time finally shifts, resting—not pushing, not squeezing, just resting with the hint of suggestion—over George’s bum properly, covering the curve of it. He keeps pushing down against Harry with an intentional curve to his hip, his fingers still locked into Harry’s t-shirt. Harry kisses over the soft, pale center of George’s throat, just where his Earth’s apple would be if omegas had them, and there’s a vibration as Harry groans into George’s neck.

The low, clinging brown sugar scent hazes up like smoke when Harry comes, pulsing against George’s little cock where he’s still thrusting, chasing, and that scent covering everything is what makes it finally happen.

It isn’t just a sneeze this time, and it isn’t painful, but it’s—it’s almost; it’s _toomuchmuchness_ , like every nerve he has shorts out for a burst of light.

He collapses down onto Harry, face tucked up against the heartbeat in Harry’s neck, and he _breathes_.

After a minute, though, he looks up when Harry winces, all of his muscles, tight, and whispers _ow, shit_ like he resents disturbing the moment.

“What’s wrong?” George asks. His mouth feels sleepy.

“Nothing, it’s—ow; shit,” Harry says, wincing and moving again. He turns pink to the roots of his hair. “Can—hang on, can you roll off a second?”

George frowns, eyes wide, and scoots off of Harry to sit on the bed. The front of Harry’s jeans is wet, which George expected, but Harry quickly rolls over to face away from George. “Did I do something wrong? Have—did I hurt you? I’m really sorry, Harry, I’m _really_ sorry for—”

“Nope,” Harry grunts. He still sounds mortified. “I—erm, I, my—it’s—hang on, this is so embarrassing I might die.”

George blinks. It seems unfathomable that _Harry Styles_ would be embarrassed about anything ever, somehow. He has more than an Alpha swagger, he has _Harry Styles_ swagger. “What’s—are you okay?”

Harry, face still so red it’s almost purple, glances sheepishly at George over his shoulder and is nearly obscured by his fringe. “I—erm, fuck, this is so embarrassing, I knotted? Even though I’m not like… in… a you?”

“That’s not how it works,” George protests, going red himself. And it isn’t—Alpha biology is meant to perpetuate itself; they don’t knot unless they’re breeding their mate. Or at least, they shouldn’t. “Did I break you? I did something wrong, I’m so sorry, do you need… what can I? How… did?”

Harry goes, if possible, even pinker, his cheeks getting splotchy with embarrassment and orgasm. “I think my jeans are so tight my dick thought I was in a person? And then… your scent, and everything. It’s not your fault. You have to smell like you. I just, erm, my jeans were crushing my knot and now I look like a giant embarrassing pervert with my dick out of my trousers and I’m getting come all over the floor and it’s going to be ages and I’m _so sorry_. Basically.”

George covers his mouth with both hands, and he could blame it on just being George and it being his natural reaction, but that _so isn’t it_.

He giggles.

“It’s not funny!” Harry groans, even as his shoulders start shaking with laughter, too. “It’s mortifying!”

“I’m sorry!” George giggles back, hiding his face in his hands. “I just—it doesn’t seem like something _Harry Styles_ would do. But I’m really—do you want me to, like… I can… do something?”

Harry’s brow furrows. “Well, it’s never happened to me before, that’s for sure, but it’s like… please don’t call me ‘Harry Styles’? I mean, unless you’re actually saying my full name. Otherwise, it’s just a bit isolating, isn’t it? I don’t call you ‘George Shelley.’ Unless I’m saying—you know what I mean, basically.” He winces and shifts again, propping up on one elbow so he doesn’t have to crane his neck so far to see George even as he keeps his front twisted away. “I’m just saying that I think we’re probably past a point of needing to use surnames, considering I’ve made an irredeemable fool of myself and I’m pretty sure I’ve spunked on your slippers.”

George wrinkles his nose. “Did you really have to do that?”

“I can’t stop!” Harry goes pinker again, the tops of his ears glowing. “I tried to like, catch it, but… stop laughing, please!”

George curls up on the bed so that his face is pressed into the pillows, trying not to look at Harry. It’s just—

It shouldn’t be nice to know that someone else can be so embarrassed, and it shouldn’t be nice to know that someone else should be so clueless about sex, or whatever it is that they’ve done. But it is.

There’s a small distressed noise, and then Harry says, “I’m going to hop to the bathroom and hide in the shower, I think. I think my legs will work. If you hear a crash, don’t check on me. Just leave me to die.”

Although he wouldn’t want Harry to do the same if their positions were reversed—hopes Harry _didn’t_ when their positions _were_ reversed – George turns his head to sneak a peek at Harry as Harry does, indeed, go hopping away, awkward pigeon-toed feet gingerly stepping off obviously wobbly legs. His black skinny jeans are still rucked up around his knees, and when Harry stumbles and goes pitching towards the wall, George can see it, his knot, see the oozy white mess all over the tops of Harry’s thighs and the front of his t-shirt and still pumping purposefully out of the angry-looking red, stretched tip of his cock. George has never actually seen a knot, since they’re something that happens internally after mating and isn’t meant to flare up otherwise, so he can’t help how the image sears itself into his brain. He’s curious. He’s had it inside him.

It isn’t as scary as he imagined it. It isn’t _barbed_ like he’d been told in school, anyway, _to keep omegas from forgetting their place and trying to sabotage the breeding_. It’s just a swell of stretched purple skin. Sort of ugly.

And then the bathroom door bangs shut behind Harry, and George tucks his face into the pillows again even though now there’s no one to hide from. He listens to the rustling sound of Harry bumbling around in the bathroom, and then the shower turns on with a wheezing whistle and he can’t hear anything anymore.

By the time Harry appears again in the bathroom doorway, his hair wet and flat against the sides of his head and the world’s most sheepish look on his face, the same face that George’s youngest siblings made when they were learning the toilet and hadn’t yet learned enough, George is fiddling with CS4 on his laptop. Harry has a towel wound around his waist, tattoos on full display on his pale November skin. There are droplets of water still clinging in the divots of his clavicle and the faint trail of hair below his navel.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry mumbles, not looking at George directly. “I—that’s really never happened to me before.”

“I don’t think that’s happened to anyone before,” George remarks. He looks up and gives Harry a hesitant smile. “Erm, do you want to borrow some pyjamas or anything? I think, I think we’re probably about the same size.”

Pink touches the edges of Harry’s cheekbones. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Well,” George says, “I can’t let you go anywhere naked, anyway. The paparazzi would keen onto us.” He pauses. “But yeah, sure. You can stay if you like. I’m up early for the show, though.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Harry says. “I know what that’s like.”

George scoots off of the bed and pads to a drawer, where he extricates a pair of soft thermal plaids and a t-shirt. He touches Harry’s wrist lightly before daring to look up, directly into Harry’s eyes. It’s something he’s supposed to get permission to do before he tries it, but somehow, in this moment, when Harry’s embarrassment is practically tangible in the air, George doesn’t think Harry will mind. “They’re comfy.”

Harry smiles. “Thanks. I probably should have dressed comfier in the first place and then we wouldn’t have this issue.”

George ducks his head to giggle at that, though, and escapes back to his perch on the bed with his laptop securely over his thighs. There’s a _thwip_ sound as Harry’s towel falls and a hush as the pyjamas take its place, sliding up Harry’s long legs. The t-shirt is too narrow in the shoulders for him, so Harry peels it back off with an apologetic look and settles onto the bed bare-chested.

There’s a moment when George can feel a tug in his gut that he’s come to associate with reading Harry’s feelings, and what Harry feels is so familiar to George that he would hardly notice on a normal day.

Harry is _ashamed_. And he’s nervous.

George bites at the scarred inside of his cheek. He shifts just enough that Harry can see the screen of his laptop, so he isn’t closing Harry out, but he’s giving him the space to choose whether to speak and what about.

After a minute’s wriggling in his belly, Harry rests his head against George’s shoulder with the slow, easy-to-spook deliberation of a stray. He looks at George’s screen as George adjusts the curve on a vector. “What are you drawing?”

“Well, I’m not drawing it,” George says, “I’m rendering it. But it’s, erm, I’m trying to figure out a good logo for the band, and I don’t want it to be just a Union Jack because that seems lazy, so this is—erm, it’s a European Robin, as they’re the national bird and we’re all from… England and… I probably won’t use it.” He looks down at Harry’s wet head. “D’you like it, though?”

There’s a tiny fluttering warmth as Harry kisses George’s shoulder through his t-shirt, then rests his head down again. He touches George’s screen—usually verboten—to follow the high swash of the bird’s linear wings.

“Yeah,” Harry says earnestly. “I really like it, actually.”

 

***

George wakes up on the Saturday of the live show with his face tucked into Harry’s chest, his cheek against the tattoo of a banner reading LOVE. He also wakes up with one arm so dreadfully asleep that he’s afraid his fingers will be blue if he looks at them, and he’s not quite sure how to move the heavy Alpha bulk of Harry so that he can attempt to revive it… so he doesn’t. He just leaves himself where he is, nestled up against Harry, and waits for the alarm to go off—or Jaymi to throw things at them.

It does, all too soon, before the sun’s even up now that it’s late into the year. George actually yelps and cradles his limp arm to his chest after he’s bodily heaved it out from under Harry’s waist; Harry apologizes profusely and says _next time, if I’m sleeping aggressively, just hold my nose until I wake up. That’s what Louis always does_.

(Harry has shared a bed with Caroline and a bed with Louis, then, George thinks as he soaps his hair in the shower, still one-handed. No wonder he’d never accidentally knotted himself before; Alphas can’t breed one another.

It makes George’s skin crawl a little to think of it, even though he knows it shouldn’t. He likes Harry and he likes Caroline, and there’s no real reason for him to dislike Louis Tomlinson. He can’t expect Alphas to care about omegas’ rights and privileges and relationships if he doesn’t get over feeling uncomfortable about theirs, anyway, at least according to the message boards he still reads and gets delivered to his inbox every morning. But that was something that Parisa had cared more about than George ever did. She had that luxury.)

Harry is wearing one of Jaymi’s shirts and George’s pyjama trousers when George gets to the dining room for a quick, nervy breakfast of toast and apple. Ella clucks at him continuously and tries to foist oatmeal onto him, but Harry finally quietly intervenes with a, “George can decide for himself what he wants to eat, can’t he?”

And then the contestants are shunted off to Fountain Studios and Harry disappears to wherever he goes when he isn’t with One Direction and isn’t with George.

Week Six is a big show for Union J, and it’s more than just the fact that whoever leaves today will be the tipping point between the Successful Contestants and the Losers. It’s the halfway mark, even with Lucy’s quitting, and that’s a long way to go. George has read all of the speculative reports that one of these days, either he or Josh will go missing because of Heat and it’s only a matter of time; he gloats, hot and nasty in his gut, whenever he reads the comments on the articles, because he outsmarted them and had the sense to know what was important to him, to go after it and make it work anyway.

But it hasn’t stopped the competition on the inside from getting nastier, too. One of the worst comments George saw in the last week was left by one of District 3’s mothers, railing that Union J were nothing but gimmicks week after week, _what with letting the omegas stink up the stage, distracting the hard-working Alphas who deserved to be there, and now this week the sob story of George’s beta brother in the Marine._

George had been nervous enough about dedicating the song to Will and the Royal Marine as it was. Now, he’s worried that his own idea to mention his brother to Louis Walsh will cost him, and the rest of the boys, the whole competition.

Because everyone sees him like Micky’s mum does, don’t they? omegas are manipulative, omegas are distracting, omegas are self-obsessed, omegas are too reliant on playing others’ emotions.

George knows, deep in the part of his heart that always hurts a bit, that people aren’t going to vote for Union J this week because he and Josh have been given camouflage-patterned blazers, and omegas can’t wear military colors.

He gets so nervous right before the show that he gives up his song-opening solo to Josh. Again.

But after the performance, after he’s walked to the greenroom with his heart in his throat and a shake in his hands, there’s a familiar sound of thunderous feet and George is barreled to the floor by Archie, Leo, Annabelle, Louisa, Harriet, and, bringing up the rear and taking _everyone_ to the ground, even Will.

“Georgeorgeorgeorgeorge!” shriek several of the children. Archie clings to George’s neck, choking him. “We missed you!”

George hadn’t even invited his family to come, although he told them to let Will know about the dedication. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re surprising you,” says Leo.

“ _Obviously_ ,” adds Louisa.

“Parisa said we ought to come see you,” Harriet explains, giving George a suspicious look. “So she set up the tickets with Ella.”

“ _Ella_ ,” George mutters darkly. He struggles to sit up, but although Harriet and Will have stood, the littlest of his siblings won’t give him any room to breathe. Behind the knot of ambulatory brothers and sisters, his dad is holding little Spenny, who is staring at George with huge eyes that seem to say _I’ve met you somewhere before, but I can’t remember where; please excuse me!_ Mum is here, too, and seems to be speaking quite civilly with Dad, which is a relief. Everyone always gets along better when Will is around, though. George tries again to sit. “Archie, can you move a bit? You’re killing me.”

“No,” Archie trills, completely content to squash George’s lungs. “I missed you too much.”

George heaves the best sigh he can.

Finally, his stepmum comes to shoo Archie away at least so George can stand and move his guitar out of the doorway where it landed when he was tackled. George gets to his feet and moves to give his parents hugs and kisses, standing with Harriet’s arm around his waist and Will’s around his shoulders.

“You look different, Porgie,” says Dad, frowning. Spenny mimics him, frowning too, drool escaping the corner of his little mouth. “Are you eating?”

George sighs. “Yes, Dad, I’m eating. I’m fine, really. Just older than the last time you saw me. In real life, I mean, not on telly. Isn’t that so wild still? I’m on telly.”

“It’s wonderful.” Mum sounds choked up. “I knew you could do whatever you wanted, Chipmunk George; I just knew it. I just, everyone said that—you’d have to stay home and we’d have to take care of each other, but I said—I just _knew_ \--”

“ _Mum_ ,” George says, embarrassed but just as glad as she is that at least, to now, he’s proven everyone wrong back home in Clevedon. “We could still get kicked off tomorrow, you know. No need to blubber yet. There could still be sad blubber coming. Like a beluga whale with a headcold.”

“I forgot how weird you are,” Will says, rolling his eyes. He makes a move to ruffle George’s hair, but thankfully remembers at the last moment that George still needs to film Xtra Factor and that although his hair _looks_ messy, it’s a mess that’s taken two hours to curl and uncurl just so.

All too soon George is called up by the PA’s to get ready to film Xtra Factor. It goes as well as ever, George happy to sit by Caroline and displeased to have to play nicely with Micky and Dan and Greg after their families have spent the week trying to make him come across as a raging needy hormone machine. But Caroline and Olly Murs are lovely: Caroline’s elder Alpha canceling out any sort of dominion the District 3 boys seem to have given themselves, and Olly’s beta _normalcy_ smoothing things over so that the viewers at home won’t notice any gaps or jibes as wide or sharp as they’re meant.

Then that’s a wrap, and George is free to change back into his own t-shirt and baggy jumper and jeans that taper at the ankles. He hides his hair under a knit beanie, too, and packs his guitar carefully away in its case before joining his family again.

But this time, when he gets to the greenroom, Harriet, Will, Louisa, Leo, and Annabelle are standing in a clump in the corner, heads all bowed to talk together quietly. Louisa is holding Spenny, now, and he looks invested in the conversation, too, one fist shoved into his mouth in great consternation. George frowns and joins them. “What’s up?”

Harriet points across the greenroom, past where Mum and Dad are laughing with Ella, to where the J’s are chatting amiably enough with—

“That’s Harry Styles,” whispers Harriet, as though her breath is being pulled from her body in a vacuum. “That’s _actual_ Harry Styles. George, do you know actual Harry Styles?”

Harry looks up, the connection in their Bond telling him that George is in the room. He meanders his pigeon-toed, slanty way over and wraps his arms around George’s waist before kissing his cheek, soft and tickly. “You did so well, George. Sang Coldplay about a hundred times better than we did. ‘Course had better lighting.”

“Oh, my god,” says Harriet, louder. “What is happening right now?” She squeezes George’s elbow so hard that he yelps. “ _What is happening right now_?”

“Erm,” George coughs. “Could you get Mum and Dad?” He looks around. “And where’s Archie?”

Archie pops out from his hiding place behind Ella’s legs. “Hiya, Georgeorgeorge!” He rushes at George again, clobbering his legs and clinging tightly. George pats Archie’s hair.

By the time Mum and Dad have come over, Ella taking Harry’s place with Jaymi, Josh, and JJ, Archie has solved the problem of how to tell them about the Bond by looking up at George with a wrinkled nose, pointing at Harry, and saying, “Who’s that and why do you smell like him?”

George’s face burns pink. “Erm, yeah, so this is Harry… Styles… and erm, yeah, so we’ve Bonded. And that’s part of why I’ve been sort of busy with like. Things. Lately. I didn’t really want to say over the phone, but now you know, so… now you know!”

Ten pairs of eyes stare Harry down.

“Erm,” says Harry, before coughing and shaking out his hair. “Hi. I think George well covered that I’m Harry. And it’s really good to meet you.”

There’s a silence, and then all at once, Mum, Dad, Will, and Harriet are saying, _George, can I talk to you for a minute?_ in one discordant voice and the little ones are all saying, _Harry, are you really in One Direction?_ as though somehow, he’s an impersonator.

The backs of Harry’s knuckles brush once against George’s as George lets himself be led away and Harry lets himself be climbed like a jungle gym.

George leads the older half of his family out to the corridor, and as soon as the door is shut, Harriet says, “Are you kidding me? Harry _Styles_?”

“Harriet,” says Mum, warningly. She turns to George and puts her hands on his shoulders. “Are you happy, sweetheart? Are you okay?”

“Did he force you to Bond with him?” asks Will. “’Cause I’ll kill him, I don’t care if he’s famous.”

“Why didn’t you feel like you could tell us?” Dad asks, staring George down with the same eyes he’s always used in court (and whenever he can tell one of his children has done something wrong). “Did he make you sign something? Because if you’re under some sort of contract to have Bonded with him for Simon Cowell’s business—”

“God, no,” George says. He leans against the cinderblock wall, suddenly exhausted. “It’s nothing like that. And no, Will, I asked him to Bond with me, so please don’t kill him, because I’ll be stuck for another 16 years if you do. Mum, I’m fine. And Harriet, what’s wrong with Harry?”

“His name’s too like mine,” she says petulantly. “It’s weird. And also, all of my friends have been utter whingers about the rumors that Harry’s Bonded, and now it’s my own stupid brother’s fault and my friends will never stop being annoying, ever.”

George snorts. “Sorry. It was sort of an emergency.”

“Georgie, sweetheart, if you’re happy, we’re happy for you,” says Mum, and everyone else nods earnestly, “But… you have to understand, we’re confused. You’ve always said that you’d never Bond.”

“I never had a reason to,” George says.

“So you love him?” Harriet asks.

“No,” George concedes, “I don’t think so. I meant… the show. And like, a life that I didn’t want to miss a quarter of. With Harry around, I can still rehearse every day and never miss a show. That’s why I did it. I am happy. I want to stay happy. And Harry’s nice. He’s sort of weird, but he’s alright. Really.”

They’re all silent, surveying George. It’s Dad who finally says, “You did look happy up there tonight, Porgie. It was like you’d found your place.”

“I was really nervous,” George admits. “But I love it. It’s really what I want to do.”

“What about uni?”

“I’d rather do this,” George says. “I’ve always wanted this more, I just didn’t think it was practical. But I can do it. I can’t do it alone, which is why I got put in a band and why I chose to Bond, but I want to do it. And I think I’m good. I think we’re good, anyway, the band is.”

Dad sighs, twitching his mouth, and then gives Mum a significant look. She smiles at Will and Harriet, too. “Well, then,” he says. “I guess we all need to go use up all of our credits voting for Union J, don’t we?”

George beams at them, and when he leans off the wall again, he gives every one of them a tight hug, letting them feel for themselves that he’s still here and still _George_.

When they get back to the greenroom, the younger Shelleys have all congregated around Harry, Louisa staring up at him with glittery hearts in her eyes, Leo futzing with his fringe as he tries to arrange it in a swoop like Harry’s, and Archie and Annabelle fighting tooth and nail for _all_ of Harry’s attention.

“There are monsters living in my wall,” Archie informs Harry very seriously, his eyes wide. “They have a gun and a sword.”

“Oh, dear,” Harry says. He makes a very convincing sympathetic face. “They’re not very nice, are they?”

“They are very nice,” Archie argues. “They have a gun and a sword to protect me from the demons.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Do they also live in your wall?”

“No!” Archie giggles, and helps himself to a perch on Harry’s knee, climbing in a very deliberate way that looks to crush Harry’s foot a bit. “They live under the floor! That’s where the demons live. They said at school.”

“Did they?”

“My monsters don’t live under the floor,” Annabelle interrupts. She punches Harry in the other knee with her small fist. “My monsters, my monsters, my monsters killed my teachers! And they eat my food! They’re very bad.”

“Oh, dear, that does sound bad,” Harry hums. He hoists her up, one-handed, to sit on his leg so she’ll stop punctuating her sentences with punches to his kneecap. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Archie’s monsters will kill my monsters!”

“No, they won’t,” says Archie, tetchy. “I’m tryin’a say something, Annabelle. To Harry.”

“I’m going to talk to Harry.”

“I am.”

“No, I am.”

“No, I am!”

“I can talk to you both,” Harry says mildly. “Archie, how do your monsters feel about Annabelle’s monsters?”

“They think her monsters are annoying.” Archie reaches up into Harry’s hair and starts to wind a lock of curls around his fingers curiously. “My monsters go to school to get more smarter, not to eat the teachers. And they fighted Leo’s monsters.”

“I see.” Harry doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the prodding children perched all over him. “What do your monsters look like?”

“They’re imbizzibo.”

“Then how do you know they’re there?”

Archie blinks. “School told me.”

“Oh,” Harry says slowly. He nods. “I see.” He gently disengages Archie’s hands from his hair. “Well, next time your monsters are fighting the demons, you can help them by telling the demons to go away. And they have to listen to you.”

“That’s is not what they say at school,” Archie says dubiously.

“Well,” Harry says, “That’s what my mum told me. And she’s never wrong, ‘cause she’s a mum. Right?” He looks up at George and winks. Anxious nerves flutter behind George’s stomach—he never wants to be a mum—but he smiles at Harry, anyway. Archie takes to everyone, but it’s nice to see that Harry’s included. “Hey, George,” Harry says, “I can’t stay long tonight, because I promised the lads and Nick that I would see them, but I was wondering, basically, like I’ve always just come here to see you and everything, but if you wanted, tomorrow, you could come have dinner at my house and I could cook for you after the results?”

George blinks. “I know how to cook. I got a B in Life Skills.”

“Well, you could cook with me,” Harry says. “I just like to. D’you eat fajitas?”

“George can cook fajitas!” Archie interrupts. “He makes mine with extra cheese and they’re good!”

“I like mine with sweet corn,” Harry tells him. “And normal cheese.”

Archie frowns and pokes Harry’s nose. “You’re weird. I like you.” He scrambles down from Harry’s knee and runs off to find Leo and, presumably, tell him about sweet corn fajitas.

Harry looks up at George from beneath his fringe, soft hope in his big green eyes. He has to have noticed that George never strays far from the Corinthia with him, never has been _truly_ alone with Harry before. Never left his own territory. “Will you come? We can just cook and eat and watch a film, and you can even choose the film ‘cause I’m awful at films, basically. And celebrate when you get through tomorrow.”

“I might not.”

“You will,” Harry says confidently. “I believe in Union J.”

“Alright, Stephen Moffat,” George says, giggling out of habit more than anything else. He looks at Harry, at the broad Alpha line of his shoulders and the gangly cut of his ankles. More than anything, at the way Harry seems to be hunched in on himself so he doesn’t give his own hope away too much, and so he looks nonchalant and nonthreatening. Maybe still embarrassed over the night before, and as though it really matters to him what George thinks of him now.

George licks his lower lip. “Yeah, okay. I’ll come to yours tomorrow.”


	10. Chapter 10

This is the worst day that George has had since arriving in London. They’ve felt the anxiety of being in the Bottom Two before, but this time it’s acutely more painful because—really, with Jade, she’d been a beta. And even with George and Josh, Union J did have Alphas. And people liked Alphas. Voted for them. More than betas, anyway. But this time, District 3 are _all_ Alphas, and their families and their fans and _they_ have been so cruel to Union J all along just for being put into the competition.

And George’s whole family is in the wings with Ella, watching as they have to fight for their place and prove that they can keep up with the bigwigs, the Ellas and Jahmenes and Rylans of the competition. And James, of course, but he’s another beta and it feels different to George, competing against James. He’s the last beta left, and George knows that he’s fighting for his own as much as George and Josh are fighting for each other and theirs.

Somehow, it feels like a betrayal when Tulisa says that if she had to vote, she’d’ve voted for District 3. She’d been eyeing George since his first audition all the way until she’d seen him with Harry the night before, backstage, and it feels like—it probably is the case that—if she can’t knot him and keep him, she doesn’t need George around. It’s a blow to know that she’d never actually thought he was talented.

They do get through, though. They sing Adele and they make it through and the outpouring of hatred on Twitter is immediate and enormous. George takes the battery out of his mobile and gives it to Harriet for safe-keeping until it’ll be time for him to go deal with having to be at Harry’s house. Alone. With Harry.

Xtra Factor is so awkward it’s palpable. Even Olly Murs can’t lighten the cloud of unrest brewing when George and Josh pass by the District 3 boys and Dan mutters _fucking dams_ not-quite-under his breath. George sits closest to Caroline, and it’s nice, her muted palm sugar caramel vanilla crème brûlée lavender soap rose perfume acetate nail varnish dark dark lime-fruit authority. It ranks her above sickeningly-sweet Dan and the lot; they can’t do anything to George or Josh, can they, if Caroline is there.

Once the show is over, she finds him backstage, where he’s just bid his family goodbye and received a million kisses from all of his siblings. His hair is wet from the quick shower-cry he’s had in the catacombs under the stage, and he’s wearing sweatpants and an oversize jumper, because whatever, if Harry still wants him in this, then it’d be happening regardless what George shows up in.

“Hey, you,” Caroline says gently, knocking her shoulder against George’s. “You alright?”

“Peachy.” George fluffs his fingers through his hair, wincing at the snarls. “I’ll probably be mugged on my way to Harry’s house, and I have to go cook for him for the first time and I’m nauseous so I don’t really know how well that’ll turn out.”

Caroline’s brow furrows. “Did Harry say you’re cooking?”

“No,” George says. “But I’m his omega. That’s what I’m to do, isn’t it? Cook and clean and have lots of little Harry Styleses and not be on X Factor if it means beating out three wholesome, tall Alpha boys.”

“Oh, George.” Caroline waves her hand. “You know that isn’t it. Tensions are high, and Dan is a knob. And—I just really don’t think Harry’s going to make you do any of that. He’s really tidy, for one, and he loves to cook. Which is nice, really. He’s good at it.” She smiles. “His spag bol needs some work, but his Yorkshire puddings are outrageous. I had tea over there last week, actually, when you were with Parisa; Harry made a full roast dinner, gravy and all, with Louis Tomlinson and Tulisa and Grimmy. He used to make me teas all the time, and Louis, too, when they lived together.”

George’s mouth twitches. “He was—he’s younger than—he’s your inf—it’s different, probably, isn’t it, with two—with you two.”

“You can say the words,” Caroline says, sounding a little tired and a little amused. “With two Alphas, yes, I suppose it’s a bit different. But Harry isn’t my _inferior_ , jesus, he’s just younger. And you aren’t his inferior either, you know.”

The _I know_ gets stuck in George’s throat, so he just says, “He said—did he tell you what he said? That time he said the, the thing?” George ducks his head and just glances at Caroline nervously from beneath his lashes. “Is, did—wasn’t he your inferior, though?”

“Taking a knot doesn’t make someone inferior, George,” says Caroline. “If that’s what you’re talking about.”

It doesn’t really help George’s nausea, thinking about Caroline and Harry like—that. He’d smelled Harry on Caroline’s sheets and accepted that, and he knows that it’s a part of Harry’s past and who he’s been, but it’s different, thinking that it might still… happen. 

“Why did Harry even want to Bond?” George asks dully. “If he’s like—I mean, he likes other Alphas, doesn’t he?”

“Why don’t you ask Harry?” Caroline pats George’s arm. “If he hasn’t told you yet why he’s Bonded to you, then he’s probably just waiting for you to want to know. Some people don’t really talk about things like that. I’ve no idea at all why Grimmy’s Alpha took him, if I’m being honest; he’s right annoying.”

George giggles. “Am I annoying?”

“No,” Caroline says. “But it makes me sad that you don’t like Harry. I really thought you would; I thought you’d be happy together. It seemed like you’d have a lot of fun together.”

“I do like Harry,” George whispers. He coughs, and repeats it, louder. “I do like Harry. I’m just not in the mood to… take care of him.”

“So don’t.” Caroline shrugs. “Show up and demand that he serves you your dinner on a tea tray in bed and then rubs your feet and lets you pick the film you’re going to watch.”

George goes pink at the idea of it. “I can’t do that. That’s not a thing I can do; that’s like a, like a fish piloting an airplane. It’s just not a thing they could do, is it?”

“Do you lack a mouth in the way fish lack hands and pilot’s licenses?” Caroline ruffles his hair. “You _could_ , if it came down to it, tell Harry what to do. He likes being told what to do. You’ll learn that in time, I suspect.”

George makes a half-aborted noise in the back of his throat, and he quickly stands to go. “I have to get my cab.” He pauses. “Is his house really haunted?”

“Definitely,” Caroline says. “There’s all manner of spooky moaning in the walls. Try to drown it out, if you can. It’s unnerving.”

George gurgles a bit and backs away, ducking into the corridor as quickly as he can to avoid—everything. Finishing his conversation with Caroline, being given a sympathetic look by Dermot, the glares of Dan and Micky and Greg as they turn in their mic packs, Tulisa giving him eyes that George doesn’t know how to read. The air is cold and brisk when George makes it out of the back door behind the studios. There are a few cameras here, but they belong to teenage girls, not paparazzi who will yell angry things. George gives the girls a few tired smiles, and then his taxi pulls up curbside and George is off.

Harry lives further away from the studio than George expected. He hasn’t been in London long enough to judge distances by the names of addresses, and “Primrose Hill” means nothing to him except that it sounds posh. 

The neighbors will probably smell him from blocks away.

Embarrassingly, George doesn’t think he’s ever even seen houses this big before. It’s not as though his family were poorly off—or at least his dad’s family isn’t, being a barrister and all—but if George weren’t an omega, he’d’ve never had his own bedroom. Leo has to share with Archie and Spenny, and the girls all share the basement so Dad and the kids’ mum can have the second bedroom. George’s room should have been a dining room. In a house like the one his driver’s pulling up toward now, no one would have to share, George doesn’t think. And no one would have to sleep in the basement and keep all of their electronics above the floor in case of flooding.

There’s a gate outside the front garden and walk. It does look like a haunted house, a bit. George would’ve loved to film a horror short here, when he still thought he might be a filmmaker.

The gates swing open and the taxi rolls up the crunchy drive. George offers a handful of bills to the driver, but he’s waved off with a _paid, don’t worry, keep earnings_.

Great. He looks like a studded rentboy. Damn all the eyeliner.

George pockets the money again, his cheeks burning. “Thanks.”

When he rings the doorbell, an intercom crackles to life and Harry’s slow, sloped voice coughs and says, “Sorry, it’s open. Come on inside. I’d come get you, but there’s raw chicken all over my hands and I don’t want to give you bacteria. Erm, if you can’t find the kitchen, shout ‘Marco’ and I’ll shout ‘Polo.’”

George’s eyebrows furrow as he tests the doorknob, and it turns in his hand.

This _does_ feel like the beginning of a horror film. Maybe Harry is making one. Maybe that’s why he’s moved here. Who would buy a haunted house on purpose else?

The house is bright, though, when he does open the door and step inside. He locks it behind him, out of habit. One wall of Harry’s front room is painted brick red and hung with all of One Direction’s gold and platinum albums, and something about the plain pride in it makes George’s stomach hurt. He’s nearly lost Union J their chance twice now, and there’s nothing he can do to help them get this, what Harry has, what Harry’s built with the rest of One Direction. Seeing the difference between them like this, spread out on the wall, hanging like the nonsense drawings that George’s siblings have done in art class, George feels like the chasm between his life and Harry’s is more than just omega and Alpha. It’s the difference between base camp and Everest’s summit—George has shown up, but Harry’s already made the climb.

“Polo?”

“Yeah,” George calls back, and snatches his fingers away from the glass covering a platinum _Up All Night_. There are fingerprints on the glass, and he quickly covers his wrist with his jumper and smudges them away. “Sorry, I’m coming.”

“It’s, if you’re by the door, then if you walk straight until you see my shoes on the floor, and hang a left, right, no—sorry—just a left, a left, _yeah_ , then walk two more doors, and then turn your head, you should smell the kitchen and follow the smell.”

George slaps his forehead into his palm. “Alright. I’m coming. Is your ghost going to eat me?”

“No, he lives upstairs,” Harry says. “And if his ghost horse didn’t trample you in the garden, you’re probably fine.”

“There’s a ghost horse?”

“Of course there’s a ghost horse,” says Harry’s disembodied voice as George makes his way down the corridor, scouting for a discarded pair of Harry’s shoes. “Can’t have a proper British ghost without a ghost horse.”

George would roll his eyes if he weren’t so busy looking at all of the clutter on Harry’s walls. It’s not _really_ clutter; some of it is art, and the rest of it is One Direction stuff or photos of him with his friends. And his family, too, because George sees recurring pictures of Harry with his arm around an older omega woman with the same eyes, and a pretty Alpha girl with Harry’s face. There are photos of Caroline, too, tucked up under Harry’s arm, and of Nick Grimshaw and Cara Delevigne and Little Mix and Louis Tomlinson and Zayn Malik and Niall Horan and every other famous Alpha in Britain, looks like. There’s even a photo of Harry bowing to the Queen.

Of course Harry has met the Queen. George doesn’t even know whether he’d be _allowed_ to meet the Queen.

“Did you get lost? If you hit the coat rack, you’ve gone too far to the left!”

“I didn’t hit the coat rack,” George calls back. “Sorry. Just—snooping. Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m being nosy; I’m sorry.”

“Oh, well, that’s okay,” says Harry, and he does sound closer. George nearly trips over a pair of pink and white trainers on the floor, so he makes a quick left turn. “You can look at whatever you want.”

So George does. The first of the two doors he’s meant to pass is cracked open, and he gingerly pushes it with just his fingertips, half-expecting a three-headed dog called Fluffy to bound out and bowl him over. None does, of course. Instead it’s a weight room, like a real gym, and there are life-size cardboard cutouts of the One Direction boys lining one wall. Beside all of the fancy equipment is a tiny stationary bicycle, and George’s mind falls on the little Alpha baby that Harry is photographed with so often. It’s cute, but it also makes him feel sick and a bit guilty, like something is gnawing at the undersides of his ribs.

All of the colors in Harry’s house are stark but cheery, like he’s trying to distract from the fact—well, fact enough—that his house is supposed to be haunted. George doesn’t really know what he’d been expecting, but it was more in the realm of dark woods and rich mahogany and maybe Harry greeting him at the door naked save for a silk dressing gown and a pipe or something. Instead, the walls are mostly bright white, except a few with their splashes of color sending the balance of the room all off-kilter. 

The gym also has a huge piece of neon art on the wall, orange text scrawled in three lines. _I woke up  
wanting to   
kiss you_.

Is that how Harry feels?

And who did he buy it for, buy it about? Caroline?

Louis?

George can’t quite imagine waking up wanting to kiss someone. He wakes up wanting many things—to wee, mostly, and coffee, of course—but not to kiss. Seems like there would be a lot of germs, anyway, and it’s just not something he’s thought about. Even when he’s woken up with Harry, Harry’s never tried to kiss him.

Has he wanted to?

And if he did, why didn’t he just do it?

George pulls the gym’s door back to where it had been, barely open, and then continues on his way to find Harry’s kitchen. The second door that he’s meant to pass is shut, and George doesn’t have the gall to open it. He stops outside it, turns his head, and sniffs. Harry was wrong: George can’t smell the kitchen from here, but he can smell Harry, can sense where he is with that soft sigh inside his bones. He follows the scent until the light breaks open and there’s a sunny kitchen, Harry standing at an island counter with a knife and gooey fingers, slicing chicken breasts and singing under his breath with whatever song is playing on Radio 1. 

George coughs. 

“Hi,” Harry says, his voice sliding happily as he looks up. He’s tied his hair back from his face with an elastic headband, and it looks ridiculous, but at least George doesn’t need to feel so bad about showing up in sweats and a too-big ratty jumper. “How are you feeling? That was bullshit, that final was. You were way better than Christopher.”

George shrugs. “I’m—we’re still in, so I’m alright. I don’t think anyone is too happy with us, though. I’ll bet this is our last week.” His shoulders slump. “It’s just as well. My, erm, my—my Heat is—”

“I remember,” Harry says. “The 20th, isn’t it?”

George blinks. Jaymi didn’t remember Olly’s Heat, and they’re engaged to be married. JJ doesn’t remember Josh’s, either, but then again, neither had Josh. “Yeah. Is—will you be in England?”

Harry nods. He scoots some cut chicken to the side of his cutting board with the edge of his knife. “Yeah, I put it in my scheduling contract. Sometimes, if—are you okay if sometimes we have to bring you out like the day before to where I am, if I can’t come back?”

“I’ll have—I might have Union J things to do,” George hedges. “But maybe I won’t.”

“You will,” Harry says confidently. “I guess we’ll figure it out. We could have the same opening act forever, I guess.”

“Hey,” George says. He glances up at Harry from under his fringe. “Maybe One Direction will be opening for us.”

Harry grins, and his cheek dimples. “Maybe so. Did you want to nap or anything, and I can get you when the food is done, basically?”

“No, that’s alright,” George says. “I really can cook, I promise. I did well at that unit. And I like fajitas, so I make them at home for my brothers and sisters a lot when my dad’s had to work. I’m very good. I put cinnamon in the spice rub.”

“Cinnamon, really?” Harry asks. “I don’t use much cinnamon very often. Toast, I guess. Oatmeal, sometimes.” He steps aside. “Do you want to show me what you do? I don’t really know how to use spices, actually, or herbs. I just get those premade things from Sainsbury’s and shake them on.”

“No, those are terrible,” George says. “Do you have spices, if you don’t use them?”

“Sure,” Harry says. “A whole cabinet, up there. They smell nice, so I always think I’ll teach myself to use them, and then I use them and make something fucking terrible so I give up.”

George giggles. He steps around Harry to the cabinet he’d pointed out and takes out cinnamon, cumin, coriander, oregano, and sweet paprika. He turns his head and asks, “Is it alright if I don’t like things very spicy?”

“I don’t, either,” Harry says. “I’m glad you don’t. Sometimes I let Zayn order my Nando’s and then I feel like I’m dying for the rest of the day.”

“Terrible. The mango and lime is the only way to go,” George says. He pauses. “Where are bowls?”

“Oh, right, you’ve not been here!” Harry turns, pointing with his chicken-y fingers. “This is the kitchen. Refrigerator, microwave, toaster oven, kettle, regular oven, stove, silverware, spices, pantry, tea, biscuits, bowls—there—and plates next to them and mugs are under that, if you fancy a cuppa.”

“I think I’m okay,” George says. “Maybe later. Thank you.” He takes a bowl from the cabinet Harry indicated and then carefully steps up beside Harry at the countertop. “Can I stand here or am I in your way?”

“You’re not in my way.” Harry smiles at him. “If you start giving me Wet Willies while I’m trying to cook, then that’s in my way. Louis used to do that all the time when we lived together.”

“I won’t,” George promises. He shakes out herbs and spices into the bowl and mixes them with his fingers. “Can I take that chicken?”

“Sure.” Harry pushes the cutting board over. “You can take whatever you want. You’ve had a bad day, you deserve whatever. D’you want a beer?”

George looks down. “I left my license at the hotel.”

“So?” Harry washes his hands with soap that smells sweet and clean, then heads to the refrigerator. “You’re in a house. I’m not selling it to you, I’m just handing you one.”

“Is that allowed?”

Harry pulls a face. “Of course it’s allowed. D’you want one?”

Does he ever. “Yes, please. Are you sure it’s okay?”

“It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you,” Harry says. He opens two bottles on the corner of the countertop and hands one to George. Then he bites his lip. “If you don’t want to like, drink around me, that’s fine. Or like—you can tell me not to drink around you when we’re alone, if you want, if that’s like, if it makes you nervous. I’m not a mean drunk or anything. I’m not planning on getting drunk, either, just like, you know. Figured you might want a beer and if you’re having one, I’d have one, basically. I don’t have to.”

“That’s—it’s fine,” George says. “Do you want me to make you a drink before we eat? I’m not great at that, though, honestly. I can mix juices with vodka pretty well. Orange juice and tomato juice together is surprisingly nice.”

“I do not believe you,” Harry says. “I don’t think that sounds nice at all. But no, you don’t—if I want a drink, I can make one myself. But I don’t think I want one. But especially not orange-tomato vodka. That sounds disgusting.”

“It’s not disgusting,” George says defensively. He takes a wet handful of julienned chicken and sticks it into his bowl of mixed spices, rubbing a red crust into the meat. “Why don’t you ever want me to do… actually be your omega?”

“You are.” Harry sounds baffled. He offers George the last of the raw chicken pieces, then takes the cutting board to the sink before retrieving a fresh one from under the counter and some vegetables from the crisper. “Like, what am I not doing? I know I haven’t given you a knot in a while, but like… you seemed like you don’t like—that.”

“That’s not what I mean,” George says, awkward. He carefully doesn’t look at Harry when he says, “I’m really not useless. I can do all the homemaking stuff, and I’m not—if you don’t want to pay for me getting something expensive if we’re out eating, then you can order for me what you want me to have. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Harry says. “That’s stupid. You’re a grown-up adult; I’m not going to treat you like you’re… Lux, basically. I want you to make your own choices about stuff.”

George presses his lips together and squeezes more raw chicken through his fingers. It makes a wet, squelching sound. How can he argue with that? That’s what he wants, too, but—eventually he’ll choose something Harry doesn’t like. Or doesn’t want. And then what?

There’s a rhythmic sound as Harry chops through a green capsicum, and when he starts humming again, it’s clear that he thinks everything has been said.

But it hasn’t. “Is that—do you even want an omega?” George asks, not looking. He stays where he is, hands in the bowl of chicken. “I mean, just… pretending—pretending I’m an Alpha won’t make me one. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“I don’t want you to be an Alpha,” Harry says. “I just don’t think being an omega makes you less of a human person.”

“Well, I know it doesn’t,” George protests, quietly. “I—that’s not a thing I think. I just know that you, like. You and Caroline. And stuff.”

“Yeah, but I’m not with Caroline anymore,” Harry says. “I’m with you. I didn’t wish Caroline were an omega and I don’t wish you were an Alpha. I don’t want to say, basically, that like, I’m glad you’re an omega because it means we could Bond, because that sounds terrible, but sometimes I’m… I feel like you’d never have given me a chance else, and I do like you. For you, I mean, like, as George. I don’t understand you, though.” Harry trades out his capsicum for a red onion, and immediately begins blinking his huge green eyes.

“Here,” George says softly, and he rinses his hands with soap before taking the knife from Harry’s hands. He lets the sink run cold, then chops off the bell-ends of the onion bulb under the cold water and lets it soak a minute before he gives it back. “There. It shouldn’t bother you so much now. See? I can do Home & Life Skills.”

Harry smiles at him. “Thank you. I don’t know why the onions bother me so much. I think my eyes are too big.” He chops the onion, and neither of them cries. 

Harry takes a pan from beneath the oven and sets it over a burner; George lets oil begin to sizzle before he adds the strips of onion. He can feel Harry watching him as he stirs them with a wooden spoon, keeps them from beginning to brown after they soften translucent and he’s added the peppers, heat on high.

“I don’t think that’s a thing,” George says. “Otherwise Katy Perry and that other one, from New Girl? They’d never be able to be do anything.”

“And the other-other one, from The Devil Wears Prada,” Harry says. “She looks like them, too. Have you seen that?”

“Er,” says George, “No. Sorry. I’m a horror film man.”

“Such a shame,” Harry sighs. “I’m always afraid to even watch the trailers for horror films.”

“I think you’d do alright in a horror film,” George says pensively. “You were handling that knife pretty well when I came in. Poor chicken didn’t stand a chance.”

“Especially,” Harry says, “Because it was already dead.” He smiles at George, and there’s a soft-settling silence as they both set about cooking the rest of the fajitas, George manning the stove with a wooden spoon and a pan of sizzling onions and peppers. Harry stands behind him at the counter, grating cheese into a shallow dish.

The song on Radio 1 fades out and is replaced by general babble; George isn’t listening. He can hear Harry’s quiet movements behind him and the scent of him is distinct even above the food cooking, and it’s been such a long day that George doesn’t have the energy to question why he offers, “I used to make horror films. Just small ones, I mean, in my house.”

“Did you really? I like to take like, little videos on my iPhone, but I don’t reckon that’s the same at all. Mostly I just film basically Lux being cute and Louis being a dick. Did you have special effects?”

George nods, and he adds the chicken to his pan to cook through. “Yeah, a bit. It wasn’t anything too special. I made one that I like a lot about a murderous dolly.”

“That’s so creepy.” When George glances over at Harry, Harry shudders. “I can’t even play with Lux’s dollies. I’ll play tea, and I’ll put on a funny hat, but I won’t play with Barbie dolls.”

“I hate those sock-monkeys,” George says. “Those are creepier than dollies. And I love monkeys, but those don’t look like monkeys, they look like No Face.”

“They look like evil,” Harry agrees. “I was always afraid of them as a child. My sister loved them, though, like that one designer who puts them on all the t-shirts? She had all of those. I had all the nightmares.”

George giggles. The chicken is beginning to steam. “Your sister’s older?”

“Yeah, and just the one,” Harry says. “It must have been great for you, having all of those little siblings. They’re funny. I liked Archie.”

“Everyone likes Archie,” George says, pleased. “They all liked you, too, I think. Louisa asked about you before they left. She’d like an autograph.”

“Bit odd, since she’ll probably be seeing me a lot, but sure,” Harry says. “Although I think we’re technically related now, aren’t we, me and Louisa?”

“I don’t know,” George says. He pokes at a piece of chicken and it gives under his finger. “I suppose that’s true, yeah. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“I feel a bit sad that all I can give you, really, is my mum and Gemma, and I’ve gained like a million little brothers and sisters,” Harry says. “Doesn’t seem quite fair, really. But I promise you, my mum’ll end up liking you more than she likes me, anyway. She adores Louis. And Zayn and Niall and Liam, but every time I visit home, she sends me back to London with a load of food I’m meant to give Louis and none for me, because I can fend for myself better than he can. It’s a racket, being helpless.”

George snorts. “I can fend for myself, too. At least with cooking, I can.” He pauses. “Did—were you expecting me to meet your mum sometime soon?”

“Well, probably at Christmas,” Harry says. “Since your Heat’s around then, I figured… like, if you wanted, basically, you know, for a while for me my Christmases have been split between my mum’s house and my dad’s, but I don’t really care about seeing my dad, so I thought, like, if you wanted, if you were interested and it didn’t oppose your, like, traditions, we could split between your family and mine? For Christmas? Your family doesn’t have to get me gifts. You don’t, either, just—saying. You’re enough.”

George swallows as he moves the pan off the heat and reaches back to switch off the stove. He opens a few cabinets, trying to find plates, before he says, “I haven’t got to celebrate Christmas with my family since I was twelve.”

“You don’t have to come to mine, then,” Harry says quickly. “It was just a thought. You can spend it all with them, or we can, or just you can. Or whatever you like.”

“No, it’s okay,” George says. His throat feels a bit scratchy and he isn’t sure why. Probably just from so much singing lately. That must be it. “I mean, if you’re helping me through it first, we can—you can come to Clevedon, probably. Parisa will be glad to see you. I think she’s smitten.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, and he doesn’t sound sorry; he sounds fairly cheery. “Sometimes that happens when I meet people. I think it’s my excellent skill at telling jokes.”

George presses his lips together. He can’t very well tell Harry in his own house that he’s terrible at telling jokes; that’s just asking for trouble, isn’t it? But maybe Harry is being sarcastic. It’s hard to tell with that droll tone.

“Speaking of,” Harry says, “What’s the difference between a cat and a comma?”

“I don’t know,” George sighs. He plates the chicken and slides the softened onions and peppers into a bowl on the side. Harry’s kitchen table is surprisingly small, but then, it doesn’t have to fit ten people and a high chair. “What’s the difference between a cat and a comma?”

“One has claws at the end of his paws, and the other is a pause at the end of a clause!” Harry sounds so proud of himself, as he sets a bowl of grated cheese, a jar of tomato salsa, and a package of tortillas on the table near George’s chicken and vegetables, that George has to laugh even though it really isn’t funny. Then again, George laughs at unfunny things all of the time. It’s a hazard of his personality.

Harry pulls out the chair beside George’s rather than across from it. He beams. “That’s a good one, isn’t it? I’m glad you understood it. Nobody else I tell it to does except Zayn.”

George waits for Harry to bring both of their bottles of beer back to the table, arrange himself in his seat, and fill his plate before George takes a tortilla for himself. He pauses before he spoons out some chicken. “Do you say grace when you eat at home?”

“No,” Harry says. “I don’t say grace when I eat anywhere. Why, do you need to?”

George shakes his head. They’d stopped saying grace after the nuns wouldn’t expel the bullies who’d broken his wrists, anyway. “I just didn’t want to talk over you if you did. Or—like, I don’t mean to talk over you at all, just. You reminded me of a joke I like and never get to tell.”

Harry smiles encouragingly, even as a mess of canned sweet corn rolls across his plate in his attempt to get it onto his tortilla.

“What kind of fonts do Campbell’s Soup fans most prefer?” George asks. He waits patiently for Harry to finish plating his own meal and take a bite so George can start his; the fajitas do smell delicious enough that after the energy and crash of an X Factor Sunday, he’s famished. 

“I don’t know,” Harry says, sounding genuinely puzzled. He pushes the bowl of onion and capsicum to George. “What kind of fonts do Campbell’s Soup fans most prefer?”

George giggles, nose wrinkled. “Anything condensed.”

Harry’s brow furrows. “I don’t get it. I’m sorry. I wish I got it. I think it’s just that I mostly stick to my iPad and there aren’t really fonts on it. I liked what I was watching you do that time, though, with the Union J logo.” Harry swallows, watching George build his fajita quickly and sloppily. “I really liked those birds, the European robins.” He trails off like he’s about to say something else, but doesn’t, just staring at George with intensely green, dark eyes and a divot in his brow.

George’s stomach yowls. He taps his fingers on his thigh before blurting, “Is something wrong with the food? Do you want me to make you something else?”

“What?” Harry asks, shaken from some thought. “No, it looks great. Sorry, I got distracted.” He takes a bite.

George sighs in relief and digs into his own, too, inhaling about half of his fajita in one enormous bite. It is good, and it’s hot, and he’s burnt his tongue. “Ow—good, though, thank you.”

Harry smiles at George around his own mouthful. “It is, yeah.” He’s quiet as they both eat, polishing off the packet of tortillas and all of the chicken, only a handful of capsicum left over in the end. 

George wipes his hands on the sides of his sweatpants and waits, head bowed a bit, for Harry to finish the last of his plate. It’s nice, to sit at a table that isn’t at the Corinthia and he doesn’t need to pay for his meal; it’d been a long time. And it’s nice to be somewhere quiet and be allowed his time to think, especially after a day like today, with the Bottom Two still weighing on George’s sense of orientation about the future. He had known, auditioning, that it would be hard for him to feel like he had a real place in the X Factor, but once he’d made it past the first hurdle—getting in at all—it had seemed… almost enough of a victory to be there at all. He’s been determined, and he’s worked hard, but every day still in the competition felt a bit like icing.

Now, seeing all of One Direction’s accolades on Harry’s wall and this peaceful, albeit haunted, piece of quiet that Harry’s earned for himself—George _wants_ again. 

“What are you thinking about?” Harry stands and takes George’s plate.

George startles, jumping up and grabbing onto the edge. “I’m sorry, I’ve got it. I can take yours, too. Do you want to sit while I do the washing up?”

“It’s okay,” Harry says. “I have a machine. Is that what you were thinking?”

“No,” George murmurs. “I was just thinking… I like your house. Even without a ghost horse.”

“Hopefully you can meet it sometime,” Harry says cheerfully. He takes the plate out of George’s hands and leaves him feeling distinctly off-kilter when Harry sets it, along with his own plate, in the dish washer. “You can feed it ghost-carrots.”

George huffs a small laugh, but it’s nowhere near his usual giggle. Harry must notice, because he turns, and furrows his brow again. “Do you hate carrot jokes, too? It was practically a verboten word when I was living with Louis, but that was his own damn fault, really.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” says George. “I just—what do you want to do with me now?”

Harry kicks the dishwasher shut. “I thought, maybe, you’d like a full tour of the house? If you’re not feeling up to it, ‘cause you’re tired from the show, we could just watch a film or you could sleep.”

“You don’t want to—no, that sounds fine. A tour. A tour of the house,” George says. “I’m not too tired. I am a bit, but I’m not—not too tired.”

Harry beams. “Okay. So,” he draws out the word, long and dipping and slow, “This is the kitchen. And you’ve seen this because we cooked in it. And then if you come out here, there’s the corridor—I think this is the one you came from, but I’m not really sure. I haven’t spent much time here myself, if I’m honest, basically, because—because I really do hate being alone, so I stay sometimes with my friends if I’m not on tour, but erm, basically, the friend I stayed with most only just Bonded and he kinda kicked me out, so I’ve been trying to convince myself old Dick the Pirate is a roommate, but he isn’t, really. Seeing as I can’t see him, and I’m not sure he’s real.”

George manages a chuckle at that, and he follows Harry on the winding route around the enormous house. He _oohs_ and _ahhs_ at the appropriate points, and giggles when it’s clear that Harry is aiming for a laugh. Harry’s funny though, genuinely, just not in the way that Josh tries to be funny, or Louis in One Direction interviews, or Nick Grimshaw on the radio; Harry is just… Harry. He tells the sort of jokes that George and his dad tell and that Archie tries and fails because he’s too young to know enough words. 

After they’ve traversed the entire top floor and come back downstairs, they pass through the same corridor George had explored earlier. Harry kicks his shoes aside and pushes open the door to the gym. “I think you saw this earlier? It’s my gym, but like, you can use it whenever you want. The lads all do, and sometimes Cazza and them will come over and pretend to work out but I know they’re really eating crisps because I find them in the carpeting later when I’m vacuuming.”

“I won’t spill crisps on your carpeting,” George promises. “And if I do, I’ll clean them straight away. Did—do you want me to vacuum in here now?”

“No,” Harry says, and he sounds puzzled. “I did it earlier so you’d be impressed.” He smiles, bashful, and then sweeps out his fringe. He buries a little dry cough in one clenched hand. “Erm, come on, I think there’s two—three more rooms. No, two.”

“Don’t you even know how big the house you paid money for is?” George asks, giggling. He bites the inside of his cheek. “Sorry.”

“I don’t really,” Harry says. “I know how many square meters, but like… who actually thinks in square meters?”

“Architects?” guesses George. “Erm, probably mathematicians. Noah?”

“As in the whale?”

“No,” George says, “As in like, Noah building an ark to square cubits. At least you didn’t have to measure your house in cubits.”

“What is a cubit?” Harry pulls the gym door shut behind them. “It sounds like it should be made of cheese.”

“I don’t reckon it is, but that would change the Bible pretty drastically. All life surviving in a giant vessel of cheese.” George giggles and his eyes meet Harry’s, and Harry reaches out, simple and plaintive and genuine, to offer George his hand to hold.

He takes it. Harry’s hand is warm and solid and, already, something familiar. They haven’t just held hands like this before, for no reason, but George knows the way those hands feel on all of him and the way they make his bones sigh happily, the nuclei of his cells zooming toward the pull of Harry’s gravity where they’re touching.

Harry’s smile glows, and George can feel his own quiet contentment mirrored back to him in the base of his gut where he sometimes gets flashes of Harry. “Come on, let’s see those last two rooms and we can watch a film. But nothing too scary, please. Don’t want to give old Dick the Pirate any ideas.”

George keeps hold of Harry’s hand when they walk just a few steps further and Harry opens the other door, the one that had been closed all evening. Inside is another bright room, plain walls, three white and one blue. A white modern desk with a Mac computer, speakers, iPod dock, everything new. A bed, blue sheets and a fuzzy blanket folded at the foot.

“What’s—”

“I thought—” Harry coughs. “Well, I thought you’d, like, basically, I go on tour a lot, and it’s silly to have a house for someone who isn’t ever here, right, ‘cause like, I always have to have Cazza come in and test the taps and the refrigerator and everything to make sure it’s not breaking while I’m gone and that’s a big pain and like, you’ll need a place in London because you’re going to get a record deal, so… basically, if you wanted, you could. Live here. If you wanted. And I didn’t—” Harry cuts himself off and frowns, mouth pursed. “I don’t want you to feel like you, like you have to say yes if you really don’t want. And like, I. I love you, yeah, but I understand now, better, that it’s not the same for you. So if you just want to be roommates or, or friends, then I didn’t want you to feel like you have to—I wanted you to have your own room.”

There’s a pale buzzing in George’s ears. “Roommates?”

“Yeah, like,” Harry tries to smile, but it looks a bit more like a nervous grimace. “We could be like Chandler and Joey, except in boy bands. That would be a good show, actually. Caroline can be Rachel. Or Carol. Carol-ine.”

“I—what am I doing wrong?” George asks. Harry hasn’t let go of his hand, and it’s all very confusing. “I can, I told you, I can cook and I can clean, I’m very tidy, and I’m sorry I didn’t pick up your shoes for you in the corridor, I thought maybe they were a signpost. And I can go do the washing up in the kitchen, or like—” George exhales a little shakily. “Do you want me to get in bed?”

Harry’s already shaking his head. “There’s nothing you’re doing wrong, George, you’re great. I don’t _want_ only to be roommates, but I thought that would be maybe what you want, and my friends, they Bonded, and they’re just roommates, and like, basically, if… I’ve realized I can’t make you love me. I thought at first that you just, you know, would, but then you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you.” George tightens his hand in Harry’s just to—he isn’t being made to say it, is the thing. It doesn’t seem like Harry will believe him, and he doesn’t have any kind of skill set for this, any way to reassure an Alpha of… anything. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. 

“You did,” Harry insists. “And—I get what I said that time was stupid. I didn’t know it was until after I said it.”

George looks at his feet, because he can’t look at this new computer and fuzzy blankets and a room in a house this big and say—“Yeah, I did. I—I’m sorry. I do forgive you, just like… it’s not the same. Being an omega and being an Alpha, even if you, like, if you—with other Alphas, you… you know. That’s not what it’s about.”

“I know—”

“But you didn’t,” George presses, determined to finish since he’s begun. He can’t move into Harry’s house not having been honest. “And I just—I can’t be like you. I can’t be an Alpha like that, and just… turn it on and off and want it and I can’t act like that because that’s not how omegas are supposed to act and if that’s what you want to have happen if I move in, even just as roommates, I can’t—I’m not… like that.”

“I don’t need you to be like anything you aren’t,” Harry says. “Or basically, I don’t want you to be anything that you aren’t, I just… I don’t know you, really, so I don’t know what you are. I thought Bonding would make it easier to know you.”

George shakes his head. Harry’s fingers are too warm in his, and he needs to let go, hand sweaty and clammy. “How could it, though? Just because they give me your haircut sometimes doesn’t mean we know each other. We were strangers.”

Harry sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed. “I thought it’d be like what I said that first time. My neighbors back at home, they were really happy. And everyone else I know who’s Bonded, like… they seem… better. Than they were before. They seem happier than I could’ve—basically. I just wanted that.”

“It’s kind of funny,” George hedges, “Well, not funny, but it’s funny how that sounds like what Caroline said happened to her? Like, before? But that didn’t make anyone happy.”

Harry nods. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. I’ve never really thought about that. But she did love him. She still does love him, and I guess I admire that even if I think what happened is terrible. ‘Cause if she really gets into talking about him, and she doesn’t a lot, basically, obviously, then it seems like they were happy together, he just wasn’t happy anywhere else. Not that that’s good. That’s pretty terrible.”

“That is terrible,” George agrees. “If you wanted an omega to make your life better, but you don’t want me to—to make it better, then… I’m still confused.”

“How does cooking for me make my life better? Or like, cleaning? I just want—I just want someone to like, love. I guess. That’s what I thought having a Bond would be. And then Cazza rang me and said you were asking for me to come, and like… you’d smelled so good, I’d never smelt anything like that before, so I thought, you know, basically, that maybe that was like a signal that we should Bond.” Harry looks over at George, and George resists the urge to look away, down, keep from staring straight back at Harry. He seems encouraged, somehow, by that and Harry tentatively rests one hand over George’s knee. “I just… like, it seemed like you felt the same way, about the scents, I mean, and. I was really lonely. And I was selfish, too, and I _am_ really sorry. I assumed the Bond would make you love me, and—basically, I just really, like. It gets really tiring, when people don’t love you back.”

Even though it isn’t the most pressing aspect of what Harry’s said, something in his speech needles at George. “I didn’t, though. Ask Caroline for you. She offered you, and I said yes, but—I didn’t, like, go to her and ask for you.” He pauses when Harry’s face falls. “Did she say I did?”

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs. He moves to take his hand from George’s thigh, but George reaches out and quickly rests his hand atop Harry’s to keep him there, because it seems important, somehow. “That makes sense, though, why you—why you left. Right after. I thought I’d really hurt you or something and that was killing me. But you just didn’t want to be there with me.”

“It wasn’t… you,” George says carefully. “I just didn’t want to be there at all.”

Harry shakes his head, then coughs a bit into his hand. “Right. I’m sorry anyway.”

“Thanks.” George doesn’t say that it’s okay, because it wasn’t; not really. “You did make things better for me, though, even if I don’t—didn’t love you. If you hadn’t come, I’d’ve been gone weeks ago.” He squeezes Harry’s hand twice, gently. “Why would Caroline tell you that? That I asked for you, when I didn’t?”

“I don’t know.”

George’s eyes narrow as he looks at Harry, rubbing his nose and a little shifty-eyed. “Why, Harry?”

“It’s nothing really,” Harry says. “It’s just that she probably knew, like, what I said. I was lonely, and she was trying to help. Probably just for you, you remind her of David, and she… I don’t know. Thought she could fix it.”

George nods. It does explain a bit about Harry’s insistence after they’d first Bonded and the subsequent way he’d let it drop completely after he’d been confronted by Caroline and talked to his other recently-Bonded friends. It explained why Harry was so determined to take him dates and try to _woo_ him (Ella’s words) rather than just mate.

Somehow, it’s more daunting to think that Harry wants someone to love and to love him, rather than just an omega. All his life, George has known that his options were either to suffer a Bond or to suffer from Heat for a full quarter of his time, always lagging behind everyone else and barred from doing what he’s wanted to do. If he chose to Bond, he might not be allowed those things anyway. But he has never, really, considered a third option—any option that allows him to be happy. 

( _That isn’t meant for omegas_ , chastises Mother Superior in his head, _the Heat is a punishment for leading Alphas into temptation and reminder to betas that omegas commune with evil and delight in their sin_. But George has been happy, hasn’t he, for the most part while he’s been in London. Happier than he’d been in Clevedon, anyway, and no one’s acted like it’s wrong when Harry comes to see him. Josh doesn’t seem concerned with people thinking that he likes mating with JJ; he even says he does. And Josh is alright. He and JJ—

Make each other better, like Harry said he wanted. But Caroline and her David ended up both for the worse.

Maybe, really, it depends on the people, and not what they are or how they mate. It’s a thought that feels so foreign in George’s head that he shakes it away, but it’s already burrowed into his brain and he can feel it resting there, waiting to pop up again when he’s quiet and alone and trying to fall asleep.)

“Right,” is what George settles on to say. “Are… you still lonely?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder. “A bit, but less than I’ve been since Louis moved out.”

“Harry,” George says softly, “Why did he move out? And—well, was it like with Caroline? I know he always says that it’s just the fans being pervy and stuff with the rumors, but, like, you—you _do_ like other Alphas.”

Harry looks as though, had he a tail, it would be between his legs. “That’s not why he left.”

“But you were together?” George presses. His face feels hot.

“That depends what you mean,” Harry says. “We never had sex, if that’s what you’re asking. Or even kissed or anything. Well, once. But then he left. But I don’t like ‘other Alphas,’ right, basically, I like who I like and it doesn’t really matter to me what their body is like. But yeah, I liked Louis. He’s—he was, anyway—my best friend for a while. But he feels… like you do, I guess, about Alphas being together. So after I kissed him, he just moved out and it was really awkward for a while, but it’s getting better now, basically, because we’ve both Bonded.”

“Has he?” George asked. “I haven’t read anything about it in any magazines.”

“Yeah, well.” Harry looks visibly uncomfortable, his shoulders high and taut up against his ears. “I don’t suppose you would. Very secretive, him and—his omega. I don’t… want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” George quickly looks down at his knees and the hand not in Harry’s curls up to press his nails into his palm. He’s overstepped his bounds as Harry’s omega; _not his place_ to question Harry. “That’s alright. It’s private.” 

Although it isn’t, really, because he can feel Harry in the pit of himself more clearly than he ever has except during the Bond itself, and he knows, acutely, how Harry feels about Louis’ having cared so much about the fact they both can knot. It’s a hollow, achy jab like an old bruise that’s being pressed, but there’s a second layer behind it with a burn like infection, something blazing more than just an old rebuff, but something fresher and newer, still trying to heal. 

George doesn’t really look at Harry as he asks, quietly, “The friend whose house you used to stay at… is that who Louis Bonded to?”

Harry sighs, and the feelings he’s reflecting onto George tinge with embarrassment. “Yes. It’s really not important, just someone else I ended up… it’s embarrassing. I’ve told you, I’m really a bit shit at being able to tell whether people, you know. Once, back home, there was this beta girl in my class who I really was sure had been sending me secret admirer notes in my cubby and so I brought her a frog I found in my garden and not only was she not my secret admirer, but she threw my frog across the room because it scared her. That’s kind of how my whole life’s gone, lately.”

“I’m sorry I threw your frog.”

“I’m sorry I spunked your slippers,” Harry says, forcing his mouth into a smile. “It’s okay.”

“Harry,” George says quietly, “I don’t really understand how you hadn’t Bonded already, especially if Caroline was so up on finding you someone. Why didn’t you just Bond to Nick Grimshaw? You’re always together.”

It’s a probing question, betting on a hunch that George has only just put together, and it does what it’s meant to—the ache that Harry’s settled in his gut throbs a bit.

“Yeah, he, erm, basically he Bonded to Louis,” Harry mutters. “Maybe two months before I met you. Only, erm, neither of them told me, exactly, on account of—well, they had good intentions, I guess, to keep it a secret. But I wish they had told me. But I really don’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, we’re Bonded, and basically, I’d rather worry about trying to, like, find out what’d make you like me better than dwell on why they didn’t.”

“But I thought he hated Louis,” George blurts. “Sorry. You don’t have to answer.”

“They don’t hate each other,” Harry says. “They just…” He exhales shortly. “Nick didn’t want to Bond to me when I asked because he has only six years before he ends his Heat and he doesn’t really want to stay with anyone long-term, which is why he’d never Bonded before, but I guess it gets worse the closer you get to the end if you haven’t Bonded yet, ‘cause of like, hormones and stuff trying really hard to get everybody knocked up or whatever. And like. I just, basically, when we were on X Factor, yeah, I was sort of half-in love with everyone in the House ‘cause that’s just how I am, except Wagner ‘cause he was like our Christopher Baloney, right, but even the people who left straight away, I was really attached. I just get that way. And he was like, that wasn’t something he wanted to ‘deal with,’” Harry says. “And I get that and I’m glad he didn’t just Bond to me if that’s true, but like… I don’t think,” Harry continues very delicately, “That Caroline knew you felt the same way as him, or she’d’ve not made me think you wanted to Bond to me, either. Because I feel bad thinking that it’s nice we have a long time to be Bonded before you’ll leave me, too.”

“But that’s not it,” George argues. “I mean, it only sort of is it.” There’s a long minute of silence, George playing with Harry’s fingertips, before he says, “I don’t hate… being Bonded to _you_. I just hate… being Bonded. Or like, I hate that I had to get Bonded just to do all of the other things that are actual goals I have for life? That’s shitty and stupid and it’s not fair and I kind of lose either way, don’t I. If I don’t Bond, then I get to be independent, but I also have to miss a week out of every month for years and years. And if I Bond, I have time to do things, but I—well, but you can tell me what to do.”

“I don’t want to tell you what to do,” Harry says. “I’m really bad at telling people what to do anyway. Nobody listens to me, not even Lux, and she’s like one.”

George can’t help giggling at that. “One-year-olds are surprisingly resistant. So are two-year-olds and three-year-olds and five-year-olds and everyone, really.”

“It’s a bias against people with curly hair,” Harry says, nodding. The ache in George’s gut lessens, unspooling slowly like yarn. “Nobody listens to us.”

“You know I don’t really have curly hair,” George giggles. “They just do it so I look more like you. I have flat hair.”

“That ruins my hypothesis. It’s just me, then, that no one listens to.”

“I do,” offers George.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to,” Harry says. “You really don’t, you know. Like, if you don’t want to see me, just tell me to fuck off and I’ll fuck off.”

George splutters a little at that, and Harry gathers up George’s hand to hold between both of his, measuring them against each other. They’re fairly equal, though Harry’s lack the guitar calluses of George’s. “I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” Harry says. “Or, erm, like… if we’re doing whatever, and you don’t like it, just say something. I can change. I’ve never done anything with an omega before, you know, so I don’t know what I’m doing, either.”  
George looks up at that, startled. “Really?”

“Well, yeah. Otherwise I’d’ve Bonded, wouldn’t I?”

“Well, only if you, you know.” George blushes. “Only if you knotted them.”

“Right, that.” Harry goes a little pink, too, before he says, “You know, it doesn’t happen every time. It really was a surprise last time, with the—you know, your slippers. Most of the time it’s, basically, a normal amount and it doesn’t, you know. So if you ever want to… basically, do other stuff, like… whatever, then you can say that, too.”

George shakes his head, face bright red. “I don’t know any—I mean, that’s okay. It’s fine. Like, last time? That’s fine. Whatever. Except I’ll move my slippers first.”

Harry laughs, then covers his face with one big hand. “I still can’t believe I did that. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my entire life, and I’ve been plenty embarrassed before.”

George pats Harry’s hair. “It’s okay. It—it was nice, anyway. I… liked it. And stuff.” He shies away from Harry’s gaze and snatches his hand back. “I guess, I mean, it wasn’t terrible or anything. I’d rather do that than be eaten by a wildebeest.”

“Wildebeests are horses, I think,” Harry says. He stands up and stretches, his long back cracking. George wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think a wildebeest would eat you.”

“Oh,” George says. He follows suit, standing up and then turning out of habit to smooth out the bedspread where they’d been sitting. It is nice; much more comfortable than his tiny twin bed at home or the too-hard-yet-too-soft bed at the Corinthia. “Well, I guess that’s good. I do like to stay aware of what’s going to eat me and what won’t.”

“Well, unless you’re frozen grapes, I’m not going to eat you,” Harry promises, leading the way out of the room. “Unless, you know, that’s something you want to try.”

George giggles. “I don’t believe cannibalism will really help me with the X Factor,” he says. “Although I may take some of your grapes just to see what the big deal is.”

“I didn’t mean eating you like that,” Harry says. “That’s gross and scary and like half of why I can’t watch horror films, basically. I meant—you know, like. You know.”

“Oh.” George doesn’t really. He can ask Josh later, or he can just forget about it. In the meantime, he’s back in Harry’s kitchen while Harry digs around in a freezer full of frozen fruit and chicken breasts, and it’s—nice. He doesn’t understand why Caroline would put them together like this, but he would rather have ended up with Harry than anyone in District3, that’s for sure. It’s still lucky, in the end, that Caroline is who found him. “I—yeah, sure, sometime, whatever. Can I have some grapes?”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry says, smiling. “D’you still want to watch a film?”

George nods and stands, taking the bowl Harry’s offered him. “Yeah, okay.”

“Do you remember the way to the living room?”

“I do,” George says, and Harry smiles gently as he lets George lead the way. It’s an enormous room, a neon sign urging _I keep believing in you_ glowing soft carmine red from one of the side walls. It casts low light into the room as Harry scuttles around, bringing in blankets and connecting cables from his laptop to the television so they can just watch something online. The sofa is squishy and comfortable, and George sighs as he settles in. Everything smells of Harry, a low note of cinnamon and clove and pear and crisp breeze. It’s almost lulling, how calm it is in this house compared to the hotel or the craziness of all of his siblings at Dad’s house. 

Harry settles himself on the sofa next to George, close but not touching, and George scoots the last inch to press their thighs flush. He doesn’t need the little flash of relief in his stomach to know that Harry’s pleased, because he puts his arm around George’s shoulders straight away. “Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” George says quietly, and he lets his tired weight sag against Harry’s side. “Did you mean it, earlier, that I could live here if I need to move to London?”

“Of course,” says Harry. “I really could use a roommate who isn’t invisible. It’s right confusing when old Dick’s stealing my shampoo.”

George giggles and turns his face to press against Harry’s chest enough to get a long lungful of his Alpha scent and the way it floods through his bones. It’s good, having a Harry after a day like today. He might understand a bit why Josh likes spending so much time wrapped around JJ, although he’ll never really get all the ear-licking. “Well, if it’s really going to be a help and not a hindrance… I might take you up on it. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Harry smiles and rubs George’s shoulder. “I had the newest Photoshop installed on that computer. I figured you’d need it.”

“Really?” George lifts his head and his eyes shine. “CS6? _Really_? Oh, you can definitely choose the film. Whatever you want; that’s brilliant, thank you so much.”

“Yay,” says Harry, a dimple distorting his cheek. “ _Mamma Mia!_ here we come!”

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was a bit late! Hopefully no more chapters will take so long, since we're switching away from the summer work schedule soon and I'll have more time to write. Plus, we've entered the final act of the story and it's happier (overall) than the first two acts! (Or is it...?)
> 
> Also, if you're interested, I've been answering a lot of Genesis 'verse questions on my [tumblr](http://aimmyarrowshigh.tumblr.com/tagged/genesis) lately.


	11. Chapter 11

George only has one day to miss Ella after she’s gone, but it still feels… off, something changed in the competition. If it seemed fierce after District 3’s elimination when two omegas were chosen to stay in the place of three Alpha boys, there’s a venomous quality to the watching eyes of the paparazzi now that Ella, charismatic Alpha queen, has been voted out and James, a beta, the last in the show, gets to stay. It’s just numbers, really; more people voted for James. Fewer people voted for Ella. That’s what the X Factor is meant to be about, or at least how they market themselves: everyone has a chance. Fairness.

It’s just never worked out this way before, and it sometimes prickles at George, what Parisa said the day he told her he was leaving for London—this is big, and not just for him. He’s started smiling at James more in the corridors when they pass each other.

Harry doesn’t come by that day, after Ella is gone. He’s off somewhere, getting ready for the releases of a single and an album that are sure to hit #1. _I’m nervous_ , he texts George late Monday night. _What if we’re one hit wonders? What if we’re Sisqo?_

George snorts into the dark of the room and figures Jaymi won’t notice, considering how loudly he’s snoring at the moment. _I don’t think you are. Your song’s only half as lewd._

Harry sends him back an illogical array of emoticons, including several “creepy moons” and an aubergine. It ends with Harry’s favorite tempura prawn, though, so George figures he must have cheered him at least a bit. George could tell before Harry texted that he was nervous. He wonders whether part of it is being at Radio 1 with Louis, but he isn’t going to ask.

Still, George needs to know-- _will you be alright to come over tomorrow night?_

There’s a pause before Harry writes back, and George sincerely hopes that his response won’t come in the form of a concerned-looking ghost or a baby whale. _Yeah. Unless you want to come here? More private .x_

It’s both tempting and terrifying. Being able to go through a Heat without anyone seeing or hearing or _smelling_ except Harry, his own Alpha, would be immeasurably less embarrassing than the last time, or any of the times that he’s been home and a dozen siblings’ noses wrinkle at the scent of him leaking everywhere. He could make the room, his own room, as dark as he needs and make the sounds that want to claw out of his throat without worrying about keeping anyone awake. He could have Harry and not worry about Jaymi (or television cameras) opening the door to see him wanton and sweaty and pressing up to Harry the way he can already tell, in his pre-Heat, that he will. He can wash wet Heat come from his sheets without leaving a tip for housekeeping or answering awkward questions from Leo or Louisa.

But.

He’d be _alone_. With Harry. During the Heat. He’s never had a Heat since Bonding, and what if… that’s when Alphas become as insensible and needy and aggressive as he’s always learned they would be when taking their omegas? What if—

There are just a lot of what-ifs. There’s still more about Heat and Bonding and _Harry_ that George _doesn’t_ know than that he does. They haven’t mated since weeks ago, either, and they haven’t mated since, since, since before George touched himself while wearing Harry’s jumper. They haven’t mated since George saw Harry’s knot, and the idea of having it back inside him makes George flush a bit sweaty and pink even now, alone in his bed.

 _That’s okay_ , he texts back, finally. _Maybe next time. We’re into Week 8 and two songs, you know. Busy busy busy!!!!_

Harry sends him back a little monkey and a Union Jack flag. George figures that means “okay” and “go Union J!” but he’s not really sure. Ever since the night at Harry’s when they made fajitas and George agreed to move in, Harry’s stopped communicating over mobile with words so much as pictographic messages that George has to decode. Sometimes it’s easier than others, but it’s always very… Harry, George thinks, the way he knows Harry now. It makes sense.

 _I should sleep_ , George writes back. _Good luck on the Chart Show. X_

He sets his mobile on the nightstand and rolls away from it, closing his eyes so that he won’t be distracted when it lights up with Harry’s gobbledygook answer. The night before Heat starts, George is always tired, the slow-taffy aching pull in his joints making it hard to get comfortable. Even Bonded, tonight is no different, and he rolls around for a bit and winces at the way his spine creaks. He’s wet, too, and hopes that Jaymi can’t smell it from across the room. He’d taken tablets earlier with his daily suppressor (a Charmander sticker on the pillbox for Mondays), but they’ve already stopped working. He can re-up in the morning.

His shoulders twinge when George settles onto his belly, face pressed into the pillow and arms over his head. It isn’t very comfortable, but it feels good to be able to press himself against the mattress, just a firm pressure from his own weight keeping him centered. George may not know what will happen tomorrow, but the concrete promise that his Heat will only last a few hours, rather than nearly a week, is enough to make him grin into the pillowcase.

The next morning, though, George does not feel much like grinning. Besides being tired and leaky enough with scent to need to take double tablets, rehearsals go terribly. They meet with Louis Walsh early in the morning because he’s decided to change one of their songs to a ballad, and the look he gives George at first whiff of him is…

George likes Louis Walsh. He does. And he’s never really believed the rumors about him having studded a few Boot Camp contestants in past years; that seemed more about Louis being on Simon’s wrong side than anything else. But that is a look that George always hopes he won’t see again, when he gets it, and every time it’s not the last, it’s off-putting. Even more than the charley horses in his legs and the swelling in the joints of his fingers that will keep him from playing guitar today, that look is what ruins George’s day.

“Y’alright, there?” Josh asks at lunchtime, sitting next to George. He has a full tray of pepperoni pizza and Caesar salad and it’s entirely too artificially scented, too garlicky, too _much_.

George’s stomach churns, and he pushes away his toast. “I’m okay. I don’t feel well.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Josh says sympathetically. “I didn’t realize you still got it so bad. I haven’t since I was a kid, practically.”

“Yeah, well,” George grunts. “D’you have to eat that?”

“Yes,” says Josh. “But I can eat it over there in the corner if you’d rather.”

George gives him a pinch-mouthed, apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

Josh takes his tray and stands. He pats George’s head, and even his hair seems to hurt. “No problem. When’s Harry coming? No pun intended.”

George grunts again. “Tonight. Later. They’re on radio this afternoon.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Josh says. “Pretending like they don’t know they’ll get number one.”

“They might not,” George says. “Little Mix are all Alphas, too. And they’re up for it as well.” His stomach turns over itself, and George pushes the toast away. He slumps his elbows on the table instead, burying his face in the basket of his arms, and waits for Josh to come tap him on the shoulder and tell him they’re headed somewhere else to do more things that George doesn’t want to do today.

Once they get to choreography, which is sort of a joke at the best of times since Union J mostly stand where they are and then maybe stroll in a line a little bit or jump off a box, Tiana takes one look at George and says, “That time of the month, huh?”

George just scowls. He steadfastly takes his place where he’s supposed to stand and walk and look cheerful. He does not look very cheerful, but he glowers from where he’s meant to be, at least. They have two songs to learn this week and George doesn’t like either of them, but then, he’s never been a fan of ABBA or the ‘70s in general. Maybe the ’70s are fun to reminisce if you’re an Alpha, but the omega rights movement of the ‘70s is looked at now as such an intrusive joke that it makes George prickle. Hear him roar, indeed.

By the time they’re done, George has taken two more tablets and a pain reliever. His joints feel like they’re mismatched puzzle pieces, or the sliding plates of earth jammed at the edges and rattling all the rest of him in an earthquake.

He wants to go home.

He wants Harry.

“Hey, you,” Jaymi murmurs while they wait for the van. He wraps one supportive arm around George’s ribs. “Doing alright?”

George nods, shifting from one foot to the other. It’s sundown, and he’s already slipped on dark sunglasses to help with the glare from the lights. “I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?” Jaymi asks. “Can I help or anything while you wait for Harry?”

He hadn’t offered to help before George had a Harry. If he couldn’t help before George was Bonded, what does he think he can do now? It’s a nice, well-meant thought, and Jaymi smells _so good_ while he’s saying it, but he isn’t what George wants or needs and his grip is too tight on George’s sore waist and everything is terrible. That isn’t Jaymi’s fault, though, so George just shakes his head. He pushes his sunglasses back up his nose with a pained whimper when the corridor is just too bright for his dilating eyes.

“Poor little Georgie,” Jaymi simpers. “Well, don’t worry, you two can have the room. I’m going to Luton tonight, anyway. Figured that if you were getting some, I should, too.”

George’s frown deepens. “It’s not fun, you know. Heat. It’s not—it’s not ‘getting some.’”

Jaymi looks surprised. “It kind of is, though, isn’t it? Getting some. I mean, Harry has to give you a knot for it to get better, so you _do_ have to get some, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but…” George would stamp his foot if his knees weren’t so achy. “It’s just, it’s not like, romantic or—I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t have to. It’s not like a One Direction song,” he says finally, grudging. He shakes himself free and wraps his own arms around his waist. He can hold himself up, thanks.

“Okay,” Jaymi says indulgently. “D’you need another tablet?”

“No,” George snaps, disgruntled. “I’m fine.” He pauses. “Sorry for being cranky. Can’t help it.”

“I know,” Jaymi assures him. “Olly gets so grumpy the day before, and Josh used to be a right dam for the whole week before, but now he’s got a JJ and gets a knot every day, you’d never know.”

George blinks. “Don’t say that.”

“Say what? They talk about their sex lives often enough, it’s fair game.”

“No, that—word. Don’t call him that. It’s awful,” George says. He squints at Jaymi in the too-bright lights, even through his sunnies. “D’you call me that word when you’re around like, Rylan?”

“I didn’t mean it bad,” Jaymi says. “Obviously. I love Olly to pieces and I do love you and Josh, too. I wasn’t being an arse about it, just you know, that’s the word for how he was acting. Like a dam.”

The van rolls up, and Jaymi smiles at George, opening the door for him. If George felt any better, he would refuse the help and make Jaymi climb in first, but as it is, he grabs Jaymi’s arm for support and teedles into the back of their transport to the hotel. He tucks his head against the windowpane as they crawl through London at twilight, and George prays under his breath that there won’t be any paparazzi or fans outside the Corinthia tonight, because it’ll be night by the time they get back and until he finds his Harry, he’ll be in full Heat. He already knows the word people will use to describe him if he has to make his way through a crowd like this. Jaymi’s just used it.

Maybe he didn’t mean it badly. But it still sticks behind George’s sore teeth like burnt tissue, stinging and raw and bloody-tasting in his mouth. George has never called anyone a dam in his life. He doesn’t even like it when it’s applied to horses, and they’re _literally_ dams.

Jaymi didn’t call Harry a sire. That’s all. He wouldn’t call himself that, either.

All in all, George is in a rage by the time they get back to the hotel, his frustration and his missing Harry and his anger at missing Harry all stirred up by his desperate, wet, overheated need to get fucked and take a knot and his lingering shame for wanting it. The van drops the other three boys at the front of the hotel in the fray of cameras and fans, but the beta at the wheel helpfully drives George around to the back service entrance.

“Thanks,” George mutters. It’s difficult to climb out of the car without feeling like his scent slick will stain through his trousers.

“I heard what your friend said,” the driver replies. “Go on inside and get right.”

George stumbles, blinded by the bright hotel lights, in the direction he’s learnt over the last month and a half leads to the lifts. He bumps into someone once and it’s terrifying, all briny beta meat scent and muscle and a cologne meant to smell sugary like an Alpha, but twisted and chemical and wrong. George groans and his dick jumps a bit at the feel of skin against his arm; he mutters _sorry, I’m sorry_ , and it would be so, so easy to snatch him up and keep him from Harry.

But whoever he’s hit just says, “S’OK, mate, y’alright?”

“Yeah—sorry.” George bites his tongue. The lifts aren’t far from here; he knows that—he can smell them, the hodgepodge of human scents, Alpha and beta and himself and Josh—and it’s just a matter of reaching them now. It’s a matter of keeping his legs working. His head up. It’s a matter of mind over matter: right now, George has his mind left, and that’s what matters. He clenches his hands into fists so tight his fingernails cut little beds into his palms, but George can get to his room and Harry will get to him.

The smeared Alpha fingerprints glow and stink when George finally gets to the lift console. There’s Jaymi. There’s Caroline. There’s Rylan, there are strangers. George jabs at the button for his floor with a desperate vengeance. _Complaints about omega scent disturbing the patrons_. He’ll leave sour citrus handprints everywhere if he wants.

The lift is taking forever. There can’t possibly be this many floors in the whole hotel.

George rests his pounding head against the wall, waiting for the _ding_ to tell him that the doors have opened to take him away. But then—sugar pumpkin and almond frangipane, harvest fairs and cold crisp air, pear and cranberry and stonefruit dripping juice-- _Harry is close, Harry is here_ : George lifts his head, still light-blind, and mewls a calling whimper so Harry can find him.

“Hi, hi, hi, I’m sorry I’m late,” Harry pants. Steady arms wrap around George’s ribs and yes, yes, yes, that’s Harry, that’s good. George pushes his face into Harry’s skin and bites down and comes, wet and embarrassing. He knows the scent of it, the scent of an omega in heat, must be drawing every eye in the hotel over to them at the lifts. That he’s Harry’s Bond won’t be secret anymore.

“I’m sorry,” George whispers, his lips mumbling against Harry’s neck.

“It’s okay.” Harry brushes a kiss over the top of George’s head. The lift door finally dings and opens, and Harry maneuvers them both inside. The doors slide shut. Harry keeps George close, holding them pressed together so George’s scent doesn’t spread.

George is still hard in the front of his sticky pants, but he doesn’t rub up against Harry. “People saw.”

“They didn’t see,” Harry murmurs. “You were hiding against me, that’s what I’m for, basically.”

“No—they saw _us_ ,” George mumbles. “Gonna be in the papers.”

“If it is, it is,” Harry says soothingly. He rubs the small of George’s back lightly and George groans, shifting up against Harry’s belly. “People would have found out eventually, wouldn’t they? It’s alright.” George lets out a cut-off sob up against Harry’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it right now. You’re okay. I’m sorry I was late; why were you downstairs? Did Jaymi not give you the room?”

“Rehearsals,” George explains, his fingers tightening in the back of Harry’s t-shirt as he comes again. “Ran late. Two songs.”

Harry nods. He’s hardening up against George’s hip where they’re still embracing, long fingers dipping beneath George’s jumper to rest on the blazing warmth of his skin. “They should have let you home early.”

“Don’t wanna go home.” The lift doors open, and George lets Harry guide him out, heading down the familiar corridor to his room. “Wanna stay here.”

“That’s okay,” Harry murmurs. “That’s what I meant. Is your key in your pocket?” When George nods, Harry reaches in to retrieve the key, and when he takes his hand out of George’s jeans pocket, his fingers are wet with slick. He unlocks the door and coaxes George inside with him. George clings to Harry, the centering cool of him, as Harry locks the deadbolt with a decisive, heavy click.

“Shh” – George must have been whimpering again and didn’t realize – “It’s okay, Georgie, let me get the lights and you can open your eyes, okay?” The steadying weight of Harry up against George’s side leaves, and George wraps his arms around himself muttering under his breath. It’s a minute that feels like an age before Harry comes back and his hand slides under George’s jumper again, cool against the overheated sweaty expanse of George’s back. “Okay, George, you’re alright. You’re burning up, let’s—can I take your shirt off? Or no?” Harry swallows audibly. “It’s dark now. You can look.”

George opens his eyes, wet from having been squeezed shut for so long. They’re bleary, and the tiny stripe of light bleeding from beneath the door burns, but Harry is clear. He has the silver-edged Alpha glow that George remembers in blurry patches from the last time they met like this, like a ghost, a wolf in the dark. Harry’s eyes look huge, trying to see where he can’t. George can see perfectly like this, every hair on Harry’s head, every whisker and freckle and blemish on Harry’s skin. It’s all gray-blue, tipped in white, shimmering with _heat_.

He nods.

Harry’s mouth quirks into a little smile, and he eases George’s jumper over his head. The air is freezing against George’s clammy skin, and he shivers, nipples so hard they sting and ache. A guttural, appreciative breath sighs out through Harry’s nose, his lower lip caught between his teeth, and his palms are cool and smooth on George’s skin as he flattens his hands over George’s chest, the bases of his thumbs just barely rubbing over his oversensitive nipples.

George whines, shaking his head. “You—now, just. You.”

“What?” Harry asks quietly. “What d’you want me to do?”

George tugs fruitlessly at Harry’s shirt with one hand and the buttons of his jeans with the other, neither hand managing to make any headway, just stirring Harry’s heady, sweet Alpha scent up into the air. “You.”

“Okay,” Harry murmurs. He reaches behind his head and pulls his t-shirt off one-handed. “Okay, is that better?”

There are more black smudges on Harry’s skin, doodles that George doesn’t have time to see. He drops his hands and starts trying to wrestle his way out of his trousers, so sticky and slick that he can feel wet on the back of his thigh, a pair of jeans probably ruined. Harry’s hands just rest on George’s hips, huge against the thin birdlike omega bones, his thumbs torturing featherlight arcs in the divots just above the waistline of George’s pants. George can see and smell that Harry is already hard, too, ready to take him and knot him, but he’s still not moving to help George get out of his jeans or to take off his own.

He’s supposed to help.

He’s supposed to take care of this.

George groans as he finally manages to tear his jeans open and they fall down to his knees. His pants are stuck to him, poking out at the front, obscene. Harry still doesn’t touch him, doesn’t move to touch himself. With a scowl and a wet whimper, George’s shaking hands set to the button-fly of Harry’s trousers. His fingers keep slipping on the buttons.

“George,” Harry says hesitantly, “Are you—I can just stay with you, if you like, like, basically, if you don’t want to, you know, like, if you don’t want to have sex, we don’t have to. I can just stay with you.”

“No!” George’s eyes prickle again and he wrenches the buttons of Harry’s fly apart. His cock is huge and heavy when it jolts out between the tongues of denim. “Why—why won’t you do it?”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Harry says quickly. “Just, like, if—I don’t know, if… I just want do whatever you want. What do you need?”

“Your knot,” George says, his face going pink even though there isn’t any other answer he can give. That is what he needs. He bites the inside of his cheek and slides his hand down the length of Harry’s rigid dick, curious fingers touching gently at the velvety, soft skin where his knot will flare up. Harry’s cock twitches when George touches it just there, a tiny bead of wet bubbling up at the tip. It smells so strongly of Harry, so saccharine and so rich, that George can hardly keep his eyes open, can hardly stand. He sways, and Harry catches him, strong arms and steadfastness. There’s so much skin all tucked up against one another like this; their scents mingle together, sour and sweet and rich and bitter and salty with sweat, and George takes deep breaths, trying to gulp up as much _Harry_ as he can get.

“Okay,” Harry murmurs. His hands caress down over George’s back to rest over his bum. George can tell that Harry can feel the wet slick there, but he doesn’t say anything this time. It isn’t embarrassing, this time. “I can do that for you, yeah.” He looks suddenly shy. “Can I kiss you this time? Like, I just want to see you, but—I don’t have to, but can I kiss you?”

Harry’s fingertips play at the slickest spot at the back of George’s pants, and George shudders deep in his spine. He nods, lifting his face. “Yeah, sure, fine, just—bed?”

After one kiss, small and clinging, mint-tinged like Harry’d brushed his teeth just before coming to collect George, Harry gives George a warm smile and slowly, slowly kneels at his feet, easing George’s jeans the rest of the way down his legs and helping him step out of them. He dapples kisses over George’s knobbly knees and jumpy, overheated thighs, breathing in like he’s drinking up George’s scent where it’s thickest.

Harry’s mouth ghosts over the already-wet bulge at the front of George’s pants, soft and gentle and so so warm. George whimpers in shock, skittering back away from it.

“What—are you—why?” George shakes his head wildly. “Just knot me, _please_.”

Harry’s eyes look black when he tilts his head up to smudge a kiss over the soft of George’s belly. “You still smell so good.”

“Then knot me.” George isn’t above begging, not tonight, not to get rid of Heat. That’s what having a Harry was supposed to do; that’s why Harry is here, and he isn’t doing it, he isn’t helping, he isn’t giving George a knot to take the Heat away. “Please, Harry, please, just do it, _please_.”

Harry kisses George’s hip. “Okay, yeah. Let me get my jeans off this time; they’re tight again, don’t want to have another accident.” He chuckles, but George can’t: the idea of having to wait another half hour before he can get Harry’s knot is agonizing. George just shoves his pants down into a little puddle on the floor and crawls onto the bed, settling his face on his forearms, arse up. His cock feels heavy and full where it hangs between his legs, the intensity of _waiting_ almost enough on its own to make him come again, the scent of Harry being stirred into the air as he removes his clothes behind George urging a blurt of wet, smeary precome onto George’s belly.

The bed dips as Harry clambers onto it beside George, one hand sweeping a long, smooth arc across the knobbles of George’s spine.

George arches, lifting his bum a bit because it seems that in spite of everything, in spite of how slick and wet and hot and needy, he _hasn’t noticed_. “C’mon.”

“I want to kiss you,” Harry says. “Is—can we do it like last time, like. Facing?” His fingers wrap around George’s waist. “Is that alright?”

George just barely hesitates before he nods, teeth digging into his cheek to try to stave off the overwhelming wave that Harry’s fingers on his skin has brought up in him. Harry kisses George’s shoulder, warm and damp and soft with a hint of his own teeth, as he gently rolls George over on the bed. In the dark, both of their eyes are huge and black as they search each other out, a frisson of heady bright Heat between them.

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs. His palms are smooth as they run over the insides of George’s thighs, opening them up. George nods, and Harry shuffles into place between George’s legs. He seems to be moving in slow motion, all syrupy smiles and smooth cool skin, moving in deliberate slides of thigh on thigh and hipbone slotting into hipbone, arms caging around George and a nuzzle of nose against George’s nose. George groans, lips dropping open as he can’t hold off another wet, jolting orgasm at the velvet-slick feel of Harry’s cockhead bumping up in the cleft of his bum.

Harry exhales shakily. His forehead rests against George’s and his fingers slide through the wet mess on George’s soft belly. “God, that’s beautiful. I’m—” he hesitates, pulling back an inch to meet George’s eyes, suddenly nervous and shy. “Sorry if that’s—”

“’S’fine,” George grunts. “S’fine, just—” he cants his hips—“Please, Harry, I just… it hurts?”

Harry blinks. His eyelashes brush against George’s temple. “Does—will I make it worse?”

George shakes his head and finally just reaches down to grasp at Harry’s hips, pulling him into place, both of them gasping at the sudden breach. “Will make it better.”

“Okay.” Harry catches George’s lips with his own and it’s a messy kiss, no finesse, all tongue, as he slides the rest of the way home, deep and just barely rough.

It’s different. It’s different this time than it was before, different from the intoxicated absence of their first Bonding, and different from when they’ve knotted outside of heat like this, too. It’s—this is bigger than the little bright flushes of feeling that George sometimes earns from Harry, low in his gut, when Harry’s proud to have made George laugh or quietly shy watching George across the table when they get a late meal. This is everywhere, this is every inch. If this is what Josh feels about JJ, then maybe George can understand it, if he can feel JJ feeling like this about him.

The long drag of Harry’s cock inside him feels different this time, too, and George doesn’t know whether it’s the Heat or just that Harry’s finally got used to him or the _kiss_ , this hot-wet sucking kiss; the way Harry’s hands can’t stop moving over George’s skin again, that’s like the first time, the way Harry’s fingertips are cool as they trace over George’s hips and thighs and knees, the hollow places under his ribs and the ticklish stretch up under his arms that makes George giggle into Harry’s mouth.

He’s never giggled during Heat before. Not ever. He’s never been able to feel anything except desperation and pain, during, and now what he can feel is Harry.

With Harry’s belly pressed so close against his, the usual hollow-throbbing twitchy ache is gone, too, replaced by delicious pressure, and it grounds George, makes him able to—to see clearly, direct his hands. He presses his palms into the flat of Harry’s back to feel the muscles move there, and Harry grunts, shifting up so George’s leg can wrap up around his waist, opening wider.

George’s cock twitches, and yes, there’s the familiar pang, too much _toomuch_ too soon. “I—Harry, can you, are you gonna knot soon?”

“I’m—want it to be good,” Harry murmurs. “Don’t want it to hurt you this time.”

“Then knot,” George grits out, and he bites down hard on Harry’s shoulder to have something to do besides come again. “Please, please, please, I just want—I don’t like Heat.” He nudges his nose against the bruise he’s rent into Harry’s shoulder as penance. “Just—this is good, yeah, you made it better, just. I hate it so much, please, _please_ end it.”

Harry frowns, and it probably isn’t just because of the new bruise on his shoulder. “Oh… yeah, I can—hang on, okay? Just, I need—” he cuts himself off with a little growl, and George’s body moves easy as rubber when Harry fits a hand around one of George’s knees to pull it up so both of George’s legs are hooked around Harry’s elbows, high and wide and so, so open for Harry to work in faster and harder and with pinpoint focus, a crease between his eyebrows like he’s concentrating to pass a test.

George gasps, anchors one hand in Harry’s curls just to have something to grasp. With the other hand, he gently touches the crease between Harry’s eyes to smooth it out, a fond little touch, and at that, Harry pushes in deep so his knot can’t catch on the rim as it fills wide and he comes, a low moan that sounds almost surprised purring in his chest.

He’s shaking over George like he can’t control it, sucking his breath in gasps. George is too busy measuring out his own lungs as the Heat begins to dissipate, a shivering tingly cold like coming in from the snow. Harry is huge inside him, pulsing come. His thighs are overstretched like this, still perched up around Harry’s biceps, covering half of the chicken-scratch tattoos. The dark begins to feel like the dark, now, as George’s pupils begin to restrict again.

After a few minutes though, Harry still hasn’t moved to let George’s legs down, and his breath is still wheezy.

George nudges him with his toes. “Harry?”

“I’m fine,” Harry croaks, his face turned into George’s neck. “Just—gimme minute.”

“It’s been a minute,” says George. “Are you okay? Did _I_ hurt _you_?”

Harry shakes his head. George touches the broad flat of Harry’s back. “Just—sometimes I get a bit—winded. ‘S’embarrassing; I’m embarrassed again. I get foolish around you.”

“Are you like having an asthma attack?” George asks, and when Harry doesn’t say anything, George nudges him with his toes again. “Hey. Are you having an asthma attack?”

Harry’s voice is a rattling mumble. “Maybe.”

“Oh, god; Harry, are you okay?” George keeps nudging with his toes until Harry finally moves his arms a bit and George can let his legs down with a little relieved groan. They’re still stuck together, Harry’s knot pulsing come into George’s body. Harry’s wheezing, but doesn’t seem to be in _danger_ ; still, George doesn’t want his Alpha dying on top of him, or Harry, for that matter, to die at all. George rubs Harry’s back. “Do you have like an inhaler or anything?”

“Yeah, but—” Harry shifts his hips enough to make the knot pull slightly at George’s rim and they both shudder. “Can’t get it anyway.”

“Well,” George says, “Fuck.”

There’s no way he can get out from beneath Harry and fetch the inhaler for him; the whole point of doing this, the only reason George can even _begin_ to think strategically, think at all, is that Harry is still knotted to him, coming in waves that make them both shudder even though Harry can’t breathe and George’s thighs feel like jelly.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says in a tiny voice. “I’m sorry I can’t do it right.”

“You did it right,” George murmurs. He keeps rubbing Harry’s back, because there’s nothing else he can do. “I—you didn’t need to get so worked up about it.”

“I just, I didn’t know it hurts you, to—like, I wouldn’t have made you all those times.” Harry’s voice is deeper than usual, husky and caught and George can tell that it’s because he’s teary-eyed, too. “I just—that’s really shit, and I’m so sorry, and… I’ll just leave you alone as soon as I can, like, get out.”

“No, it’s… you didn’t make me, really,” George tries. “I didn’t, I mean I didn’t, I mean, I did want to, because I wanted you to be happy enough with my-my-my _performance_ as your omega to stay with me. Erm.” He swallows. “But it wasn’t, to me, anyway, it wasn’t… like that.” He sighs. “I mean, it was, at first it was shit, but… I should have just told you that from the off. Or like, we should have talked to each other about it.”

“I would’ve stayed anyway,” Harry snuffles. “You’re my Bond. I’d have to. I mean, basically, I also want to, but I mean, I would have had to, too.”

“Well, I didn’t know that.” George counts to ten a few times, his hand still sweeping gentle arcs over Harry’s spine. His muscles are tight. “Just relax, Harry. I’ll get you your medicine or whatever you need as soon as we can.” Harry starts to lift his head to argue, but George shakes his head and adds, quick and soft, “I _want_ to.”

They’re quiet for long minutes, Harry’s breath wheezy but steady as he rests over George, a heavy, warm weight. George’s eyes slowly adjust again until it’s hard to see Harry in the dark. His ears have stopped buzzing, his joints don’t ache. There isn’t the same sort of overwhelming, fizzy rush of relief that had accompanied the last time Harry gave George his knot during a Heat, but they’ve also solidified their Bond in the last month. George’s DNA doesn’t need to shift to accommodate Harry’s. Harry’s heart doesn’t need to make more room for George. It’s already there.

It’s a strange thing to feel this way, lying under the bulk of Harry in the dark, because George doesn’t feel smothered in the way he’d always thought he would. The way he did before. When George was six, he started studying for his first Communion, but he’d read the illustrated children’s Bible since he was tiny, as young as Spenny. There were vivid watercolor portraits of the first Alpha and his omega, smiling and dressed in togas, a mile away from the paintings that he’d come to learn in school. The more he was taught, the less he understood why they’d been painted as smiling at each other in his children’s book—the Alpha, maybe, but what did the omega have to smile about? _He gets to be the sun_ , Mum had always explained. _See how bright? You get the guide, that’s what you have to look forward to._ And she’d always tickled his sides and added, _and besides, who doesn’t love sunshine? ‘Cause what d’you get in the sunshine? That’s right; ice cream! Do you want some, Chipmunk Georgie?_

But studying for his Communion had set him straight: omegas did not get to guide and were not bright. They were not meant to be loved by everyone. They were meant, each, to be guided and overshadowed and owned by one Alpha. The painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel proved it. Far from the smiling, toga-clad pastel Alpha and omega men of George’s children’s Bible, this was an Alpha being blessed in his swollen-knotted, muscular glory by God himself while beneath him, half-formed and half-crazed omegas writhed in Heat with their black eyes screwed shut. _omegas’ eyes are too sensitive to see God’s light without the protection of an Alpha_.

When George was twelve, the first time he had a Heat and went blind except to the dark, he cried.

He talked about it in confession the next week. It seemed like something to feel guilty about, and anyway, he was supposed to confess everything that he did during the Heat anyway. _I… don’t know how many times. Yes, I touched it. No, not there. I didn’t sleep._ He’d expected some kind of heavy penance, a thousand Hail Marys or maybe cleaning the rectory. But instead he’d just heard a very grave voice apologize that he couldn’t be absolved anymore, because the Heat omegas felt was the fire of hell, and he had to accept that he belonged there.

And for seven years, it felt absolutely true that for a quarter of his life, he was condemned to hell. So George had decided that it was. It was true. And he started to notice everything that happened to him, or to other omegas, that could be used as evidence. Since he’d left school, it had become less religious and more—George liked to say logical: legal precedents and historical oppression, statistics and reportage and visceral personal experience. He might not be condemned to the hell that he’d seen in bright orange watercolor, but over the thousands of years, Clevedon had become hell. In blues and grays and the stagnant smell of serving coffee.

Harry wheezes, ribs shaking, and George knuckles into the tense muscles of his back. A light groan. A shift of hips. They’re still tied to each other, but Harry’s stilled, just waiting it out, too.

George chose London over Clevedon before there was a Harry for him. And last week—only a few days, really, although it feels like ages—he chose Harry’s house over a place of his own even though he’s still afraid of it, down under his belly where his organs are soft, still afraid of how blind he is during Heat and what’s waiting for him on the other side of it. But there are two ways to see Harry’s house, replete with its invisible ghosts.

In George’s world, everyone learned as a small child that there were monsters under their beds, monsters that lived in the walls, but Harry is the first person he’s known to name them and call them out into the open. Harry is friends with his monsters.

That might be in the end what George wants: if you’re friends with your monsters, then they can be tamed and trained. George doesn’t want his monsters to be pets; he wants to arm them and own them and turn them into guard dogs frothing at the mouth to protect him from the people whose monsters won.

A month ago—only a month—George had thought his monsters all wore Harry’s face.

But they don’t.

They might sometimes speak through Harry’s words, but Harry’s named his ghosts and they aren’t George’s. Harry’s own ghosts wear Louis’ face and Nick Grimshaw’s voice and carry the weight of Caroline’s dead omega’s bones, and George doesn’t have to share any of them. There aren’t names and faces yet that George knows how to muzzle in his own trove of monsters, but for the first time in seven years, _he_ isn’t one of them. He’s allowed to walk out of hell. And he can even look back. He has to, otherwise he’ll never be able to measure how far he’s come and the distance between his own feet and the monsters’ reaching claws.

George turns his face towards Harry’s neck and nudges his nose against Harry’s cool skin. Goosebumps raise. “You doing okay?”

Harry nods. “Just—I finished, basically, so we’re, we’re just waiting it out.”

“That’s alright. Can you—here, try moving a bit?” Harry can shift, now, and take some of his weight off George. It’s not comfortable, but with a bit of wriggling, George gets free and they both wince and sigh all at once. “There. Can you sit up? Okay. Where’s your, erm, where’s your inhaler? Do you still need it?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder. “Probably should. It’s just in my bag, don’t know where that went, though, ‘cause I was worried about you.”

“I can find it.” George has to switch on the lamp to see, and it feels like a novelty. Harry’s bag is strewn over the desk, its contents spilled out. iPhone. Blackberry. A Moleskine journal with a pen tucked inside. Banana. And an inhaler, which George picks up, then, feeling the wet gooey slide down the back of his thigh, just tosses to Harry. “Can you? Sorry—I have to shower, I’m sorry, I have to, I just, I’m sorry?”

Harry bungles the catch, but manages to be rather suave when he scoops the inhaler up off the mattress. “That’s yeah, do what you need to do. Erm, d’you mind if like, basically, if I pop in for a shower as well once I’ve got my lungs back?” There’s a stretched-thin silence before he adds, “I’m not going to like, do things to you. Or at you, or anything. I’m just all sweaty and I smell quite bad.”

George has to duck his head to giggle at that because Harry’s scent is still floating over everything in the room, and it isn’t bad at all, sweet and warm and crisp. “Erm, I—some of it’s, like, embarrassing. To wash. But if you knock, yeah, and erm, um, wait. Just a few minutes. You, yeah, you can.” George feels a bit wibbly.

Shaking the inhaler, Harry nods. “I don’t have to.”

“No, it’s okay?” George gives Harry a tight smile and hops to the shower, leaving the connecting door open. Jaymi had broken it earlier in the week trying to prank JJ, anyway, so it wouldn’t have locked even if George still wanted it. The water runs hot enough to steam George’s skin pink. It’s quick and efficient now to clean out the remnants of Harry’s come, but still embarrassing, making George blush and his heart pound at the idea of Harry seeing this when he comes to knock at the door. He can hear Harry, though, still out in the main bedroom, with the aerosol sound of his inhaler and the creaky bedframe as Harry moves.

When George is soaping his legs, the television crackles on with a few soft words and then off again before Harry calls, “Is it okay if I come in? Only I’m getting a bit crusty. But I can wait. Don’t mind the crusts, me. Gives you curly hair.”

George giggles and then spits out a mouthful of soapy water, pulling a face. “It’s—yeah, fine.” He swallows twice, then adds, “Don’t laugh at me. Please.”

Harry is tall and tan and nude, inked all over, when he appears in the doorway. “Why would I laugh at you?”

George turns his face up to the spray, a little faint with his heart hammering and breath catching in his throat. He just shrugs. “Laughable.”

There’s a little blast of cold air as Harry opens the shower doors and steps inside. Even though they aren’t touching anywhere, George can feel him on his skin, a steady pull. There’s a long minute of silence except the rush of the water as they feel each other out, and then Harry murmurs, “Could I get the soap, please?”

George licks over his lip. He turns to face Harry, soap in hand, hair plastered down to his forehead, wet and naked and fully on display in the light. It’s never been that way before. Not with Harry. Not with anyone. When George finally manages to look at Harry’s face, almost level with his own, Harry’s eyes are wide and green and innocent, mesmerized.

“You’re really gorgeous, George,” Harry whispers, like his throat is dry. He coughs, then takes the soap. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

“That’s okay.” And it is, because George is staring, too. Specifically, he’s staring at two new black tattoos that span across Harry’s collarbones. “Are those—my robins?”

Harry’s cheeks go pink. “Er, yeah. Do you mind? I just, I really liked them, and I thought… well, that I liked them a lot, basically, and that even if you didn’t get to use it as your logo, like, they were really good and you should get to keep them. I guess. And you didn’t like my other tattoos ‘cause they didn’t mean anything, so I—well, I assumed you’d like these, but maybe I should’ve asked.”

George’s fingertips brush over the black ink in tentative amazement. There’s something roaring in his belly at seeing his designs on something so permanent. Anything other than a class assignment or his own laptop screen, really. And these are on _Harry_. _Forever_. _His designs_ are _on Harry_ for _ever_. Harry’s deep breath lifts under George’s hands, and George looks up at him. The spray from the showerhead is misting Harry’s curls into a wet, wild halo.

“I like them,” George says, then clears his throat. “I love—I like them, yeah.”

“I looked up robins before I got them, just in case they were like, you know, the patron birds of asshattery or something,” Harry says, “And did you know that they can make their nests anywhere? Like, they’re the ones that make their little nests in neon signs or like, kettles or wheelbarrows or something.” He swallows. “I like that. The idea that they can make—like, their home and family work just, wherever. Whatever circumstances.” Harry’s hand cups George’s jaw so, so gently, like he’s afraid George will fly away. “I think it fits us.”

George leaves his hands resting on Harry’s skin. “I always learnt that robins had red breasts because they got burnt in hell, trying to bring water from Earth to the people trapped in Purgatory.”

“Well, that’s morbid,” says Harry. “I think I like my fact better than your fiction.”

George gives a half-smile. “I like the tattoos. Erm, I’m all clean, so I’m going to leave you to your washing.”

Harry nods and brushes George’s fringe out of his eyes with a thumb. “I’ll only be a few minutes. Erm, did you want me to stay or go?”

“I figured you’d stay.” George smiles. He licks his lips and works them together for a minute, testing out his feelings whether he should kiss Harry now. It feels too bold by half to lean up and kiss Harry when they’re both naked like this, so he doesn’t. He does smile, though, and give Harry’s robins a last pat before he ducks his head and mutters, “Don’t look at me when I get out, I’m all floppy.”

“You are not,” says Harry firmly. “You’re beautiful. But I won’t look.” He screws his eyes shut and turns his face up into the water, and George feels a little rush of gratitude as he sneaks out of the shower and wraps himself head to knee in fluffy flannels. He dries off and leaves one towel around his hair even after he’s scampered back into the main room and hidden himself in baggy pajamas, a t-shirt and soft plaid trousers, under his monkey-eared onesie. It’s warm and comfortable, even as he strips the bed of its damp, scent-soaked sheets and calls down to housekeeping for a fresh set. Harry is singing to himself in the shower, low and husky under some song that George doesn’t know.

Once the bed is clean and dry, George settles in with his iPad, set to draw some more robins, but he’s distracted first by Twitter—where Union J’s follows have gone up by the tens of thousands.

“Oh, no,” George whispers. “That’s not good. Is that good? That can’t be good.”

He closes one eye, squints the other, and clicks on the mentions.

_OH MY GOD OH MY GOD UNION GEORGE AND HARRY???? #gerrysheyles_   
_disgusting. there is a reason unbonded omegas shouldn’t be allowed in x factor. shame on union george for throwing himself at harry. #xfactor_   
_Wonder whether this will finally get Union J kicked off? #knotsluts #pandering_   
_EXCLUSIVE! X Factor’s “unbonded” omega George Shelley gets Heated with Harry Styles… bit.ly/tko9503_

“Oh, no,” George moans. His eyes prickle. “No, no—that’s… oh, not good at all.” He clicks on the last one, the link, and there he is, in grainy iPhone photo glory, eyes shut tight and pressed up against Harry, their legs slotted in a way that looks more sexual than George remembers it being. They’re just inside the lift, the photo snapped as the doors were sliding shut, but it’s undeniably George Shelley and Harry Styles.

He covers his mouth.

“What’s up?” Harry asks, sounding concerned, as he pads out of the bathroom. He has a flannel around his waist and is scrubbing at his hair with a second. “Are people being nasty again?”

George shakes his head and can’t quite meet Harry’s eyes. He’s surely just ended his own career before it can even begin, but he might have hurt Harry’s, too, Harry’s livelihood and that of the rest of One Direction. Of course things had to go wrong from trying to accept Heat, normalize Heat. It just wasn’t acceptable. And Harry won’t, won’t, won’t—

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, and takes the iPad. “What’s—oh. Well, that’s not a very flattering picture. Look, my pants are sticking out at the back.” He slips an arm around George’s shoulders. “Hey, don’t cry. If you cry, I’ll cry, and I’ve already had a hard time breathing tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” George whispers. “I’ve fucked it all up.”

“What’ve you fucked up?”

“Everything.” George keeps a hand over his face. “I’m—we’re going to be voted out, and you, I don’t even know what will happen to you lot, and… god, I look like such a—”

“You look like an omega going into Heat,” Harry says, “Because that’s what you _were_. And we’re Bonded, so if anyone has a problem with it they can fuck themselves, basically. And nothing’s going to happen to me, really. It’s loads better than when there were photos of me with Caroline, looking at it the way my PR will. And… you might not be voted out, you know. If we confirm we’re Bonded, maybe the conservatives will stop being up you for being too sexual or whatever.”

George just shakes his head, and exhales a shuddery breath. “It’s embarrassing.”

“What’s embarrassing? Like, getting photos taken? ‘Cause I have to say, get used to that, love.”

“No-- _that_ photo,” says George. “People seeing me like that. I look like a terrible person.”

“No, you don’t,” Harry says firmly. “You look like an omega going into Heat, and that’s it. And George, basically, like, I know your family doesn’t have any others, but like, mine did, and it’s not like seeing that’s new, really. Everyone who has an omega partner or like, parent or kid or whatever, like. It’s not like you’re the only omega in the world, and all of them go through Heat, too. It might be embarrassing, but it’s not a reflection on you.” Harry clicks out of the article without reading it. “Here.” There are a few clicks, and George peeks over Harry’s bicep in time to see _Please know George didn't 'throw himself' at me. He is the best bond i could ask for and a very sweet person. Please respect that_ on Harry’s twitter account before the iPad is turned off and stowed on the bedside table.

“But—”

“No,” Harry says, and he arranges George down against the pillows in a comfortable spoon, George wrapped all around Harry’s back. He holds George’s hands in front of him, fingers laced. “We’re not going to be bothered right now. I’m tired, and you’re tired, probably; are you tired?” George nods. “Right. So we’re both tired, and it’s been a long day, and we’re going to sleep. People who get paid to deal with those stories can do it before we have to wake up for another long day.” He lifts George’s arm and noses back the long sleeve on George’s onepiece so he can kiss George’s wrist. “Sleep, Georgie.”

George nods. His stomach is still churning, but his body is exhausted enough to overpower his reeling brain. He barely manages a kiss to the back of Harry’s head before his eyes slip closed.


	12. Chapter 12

There are boos from the audience after Union J sing their first song on Saturday night. 

They aren’t the majority, but they’re there: audible, lowing, a jeer directed at George for having the gall to get up on stage in front of the nation after they’ve all seen him in the throes of Heat (a private thing until it’s for their consumption in porn and drama and sermons about brimstone in church). 

But Jaymi reaches across their little huddle and takes George’s hand on one side, and JJ puts his arm around George’s waist. Next to them, Josh holds his chin up high with defiance. It could have been him. It could have been any of millions.

During the song, when they’d walked up to the row of girls always waiting at the front row, one had actually snatched her hand back when George reached for it. He wasn’t worth being touched by anymore if he weren’t for the taking.

George knows that he’s shaking, even with his boys standing all around him. If there are two hundred people out of a thousand booing in here, then there are literally tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, booing at their television sets right now. Just because he’d been late back to the hotel and been too far gone not to press into Harry in the lifts before the doors shut. And, probably, just because Harry had gone on Radio1 the day before and confirmed that yeah, he was Bonded to George off Union J, and it had been longer than this week, and yeah, he did get a pretty one, didn’t he?

Afterwards, Harry had tweeted, _Smart and funny, too, not just pretty. I don’t care much for looks .x :-)_

It was sweet. It was very Harry. And it was very needed, with the week George is having. Louis Walsh keeps giving him these hangdog looks like there’s been some sort of great betrayal. The producers have been trying to get George to agree to do an exclusive interview with Heat or The Sun or The Daily Mail, but he just doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to dress up in some pious house-omega outfit and look bashfully contrite for a photoshoot while he lies about how Harry swept him off his feet. It just isn’t what happened.

Instead, what happened was that Caroline lied to them both, and they were lucky enough that it worked out alright. 

George isn’t really looking forward to her interviewing Union J on Xtra Factor in less than an hour, either. Because she’ll ask, and she’s the one person he feels like he needs to answer. That, on top of whatever’s coming from the judges and the vote, already feels exhausting.

“I just feel so good about this band,” Gary enthuses, and the booing stops like he’s dropped a lid on it. “Something about it is just so right. The balance you have between Jaymi and JJ and then George and Josh, it’s really good. I think you’re on a roll now, guys, I really do. Best of luck to you; all four of you deserve votes from the people at home.”

_What?_

And then Nicole runs through a spiel of compliments about their charisma and their voices and just when the sound in the auditorium has dropped to pin-drop silence, she adds, “And George, I’m proud of you for being courageous and strong this week, my love.”

There aren’t boos. There’s a single shriek first, and then more, and it’s applause. It doesn’t bring down the house, but it bursts George’s ribs all the same.

JJ and Jaymi both tickle George’s ribs, and he bursts into giggles. He can’t help it—and he can’t stop. It feels like a champagne cork’s been burst inside him, everything spilling out all at once, a fine foam of not needing to keep secrets anymore and not being able to hide. Even when Dermot comes onto the stage and addresses George, it isn’t embarrassing—for once—that he can’t get through a sentence talking to him without giggling. 

Yeah, maybe some of the audience is laughing at him, but some are laughing with him. Some, maybe, will stand with him, too. Will stand with Union J, and they won’t have to go home.

It’s a feeling that dims a little to a glow beneath George’s ribs when it’s time for Xtra. Christopher Maloney elbows George quite hard in the chest on his way off the sofa and it hurts like it might bruise as George sits down beside Caroline.

“Well done, Union J!” she enthuses, professional as ever. George and Jaymi and JJ and Josh all applaud, and truth be told, George deserves it this week, he thinks. “Congratulations on your performances tonight, they were very good. Now George – ” she’s just jumping right into it then – “How do you feel tonight? It’s been a big week for you, hasn’t it?”

The apology is clear in her eyes. So is the concern. All the same, George doesn’t want to tell her that Harry’s been his rock this week. He doesn’t want to mention the thousands of hateful tweets that he’s received for Bonding to Harry, and the tens of thousands of congratulatory tweets Harry’s gotten for bagging a fit omega like him. It isn’t really Caroline’s business that George looks forward to Harry’s visits every night now that all they do is turn off their mobiles and cuddle under the sheets to watch films and ignore social media for a while. 

The thing is, it isn’t Caroline’s fault that the picture came out. It isn’t her fault it happened. With or without a Bond, George would have been going into Heat that night and their van still would have hit traffic on the way back to the hotel. He would still have been racing through the corridors scenting so thickly he was probably surrounded by a cloud, and he still would have lost himself by the time he was waiting for the elevators to ding. But because of Caroline, he’d had a Harry there to shield and protect him. Because of Caroline, George had a Harry to help him make it to tonight’s show at all.

But she’d still lied to the both of them. She had taken domain over George’s future without even giving him the facts, and that’s everything George has always hated about Alphas. She might have done it with the best of intentions, and George is sure she did, given the way she’d mated to her own omega to help him through a tight spot. But that hadn’t worked out. And to assume that George and Harry would just because she was older now or the most Alpha of them all or just because George had seemed in such need and Harry had been so lonely—she could have killed him, too. For all any of them know, it still might. Because that night that Caroline gave George to Harry like a consolation prize, she’d decided that she knew better than George what, or who, he needed to live the life he wants. It wasn’t her choice to make.

“I think we performed really well,” George says. “I feel really good about it, and I just hope everyone votes for us.” He pastes on a smile and gestures next to him. “These lads really deserve it, you know?”

All three of the J’s pile onto George and yell indeterminately. It’s something One Direction do all the time, and apparently works very well for them. George can’t help giggling again, and he ruffles his hand through Jaymi’s hair since it’s the only coif that won’t trap his fingers in hairspray. 

After that, it seems business as usual for their segment up until the phone-in fan question.

“Hi, I have a question for George? I just wanted to know, erm—” she sounds very small. “I just was wondering, erm, whether you felt like, you know, you _had_ to Bond to like, erm, to get to do the X-Factor? ‘Cause I wanted to try out when I’m sixteen, but…” she trails off.

On one side, Caroline’s gaze on George is sharp, and it feels, from beside her, like she’s holding her breath to await his answer. But on the other side, Josh is smiling, and he pats George’s knee. Jaymi, JJ, and Olly Murs are all staring at him. 

But the problem is, George has less than a minute to spend on his answer before they have to leave the set.

He coughs, giggles nervously, then clears his throat. “Hi, I—well, it’s a bit complicated. Erm, I’d have to say… yes and no? I definitely, I didn’t feel like I had to Bond to Harry, or anyone else from the X-Factor, like—I want to make that clear, it had nothing to do with that part of the competition. And I did get through the audition and boot camp and Judges’ Houses on my own, so I think if you don’t want to Bond, then you can definitely get through without it. And everyone was really kind about that.”

He licks his lips, suddenly very dry, and glances at Caroline. “But I also think… well, I’d thought it was hard back home not to Bond when I didn’t, erm, really want to, but it ended being kind of impossible here because everyone assumes that—there’s just not a lot of leeway to miss a day, much less more than that. There isn’t really any consideration made, I guess, and that’s alright since I wouldn’t want to look like I was taking advantage, but I also don’t really like being taken advantage of.”

George swallows and looks away from Caroline. “I didn’t really come here to make a point about—anyone in particular. I came to make a point for myself. And I think maybe I’m learning that on a show as big as X-Factor, it can’t be just one or the other, ‘cause I’m a reflection of the show and of my town and of these boys—” he gestures to the rest of Union J—“And I guess on Harry and One Direction, too. So it’s not easy, no, and I don’t think it’d’ve been easier without a Bond, but it hasn’t been made easier to have one. 

“I didn’t really know Harry, like—I’m still getting to know him. And I’m very lucky that Harry is a nice person, ‘cause it could have ended up really badly for me and the boys. But you know,” he tries a smile, “One Direction are such a huge inspiration to us and if we can all make them proud and follow in their footsteps, then that’s –that’s worth it. That’s what I came here to do. I came here to like,” he giggles, “I came here to take the crown from Harry Styles, not—erm, the other thing.” He covers his face with both hands as Jaymi and Olly Murs hoot and JJ brays like a horse beside him, that terrible laugh that goes through the walls.

“What a succinct answer!” Caroline says into her microphone, but her throaty low laugh is false. “Well, boys, you’ve all worked extremely hard in this competition and I hope everyone picks up their phones for you. Everybody, Union J!”

“That was really good, Georgie,” Jaymi says right into his ear as they exit through the long, quiet corridor to the green room. “I reckon you’re a role model.”

It’s the most they’ve interacted in a few days—George just can’t get Jaymi’s _such a dam_ out of his head.

“Thanks,” George whispers. Ahead of them, JJ already has his arms wrapped around Josh as his omega cracks open two bottles of beer. George’s head aches just behind one eye, though, and he doesn’t really want to deal with finding his serving license, the loud rowdiness of the contestants’ nervous celebration, Maloney’s mimping. The drink limit on omegas in public spaces. Jaymi, though, heads right over and takes Josh’s beer out of his hand, claiming it as his own by licking the rim.

George rubs his closed eye and tries to stop grinding his teeth. What he wants, really, is quiet. And maybe one more beer than he could have here. He waits, a shadow against the wall as Tulisa and Nicole parade past him with their high heels off for the night, and chews at the inside of his cheek before he fishes his mobile out of his pocket and turns it on.

_Could I come spend the night? Its too loud here._

Harry’s reply comes swiftly, the way George knew that it would since it’s just after a show and it had taken a lot of convincing just to get Harry not to come to the studios himself, since that would make the X Factor even more of a media circus than it normally is. _Of course! Door’s open always .x_

George nods before he remembers that Harry can’t see him. _Thanks. See you then._

 _Do you need anything?_ Harry texts back. _I have pyjamas and shampoo for you in you’re bedroom and I bought a coffee maker! I don’t know how to use it though.. .x_

George snorts as he bypasses the party room for the quiet of the bathroom where he can change into his sweats and a big jumper in peace. He doesn’t answer Harry until after he’s washed his face with lukewarm water in the white porcelain sink. _I can make coffees. I might stop for food on the way if youd like a takeaway?_

His head still throbbing, George returns his outfit to Frank, then books a taxi to Harry’s, leaving through the back exit so he can avoid as much of the hullabaloo as he feasibly can. From the car, he checks his mobile again so he can tell the driver whether to pull through Nando’s or McDonald’s, but instead Harry’s pish-poshed the idea and said that he has enough food at the house. George rests his eyes, head tipped back, as they roll through the dark streets of London, Capital FM playing softly through the radio. Josh had nearly been in The Wanted on their label, until they found out he was an omega.

He must fall asleep, because he wakes up to a hand on his shoulder and yelps, twisting away.

“Hey, hey, it’s me,” Harry says, lifting both hands away and backing out of the taxi’s backseat. “Sorry, you didn’t wake up and I saw you through the camera at the gate, so—I just thought, I’m sorry, I thought you’d rather I wake you up than someone you didn’t know.”

George rubs his chest, heart still tripping. “Yeah, thanks. Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“That’s alright,” Harry says. “If you want to nap while I finish up cooking, you can. Your bed’s all made up.”

George yawns, covering his mouth a moment too late. “You don’t have to cook just for me, I thought you meant—like, you had leftover pizza or something that needed eating. I feel bad.”

“Don’t,” Harry says, and the warmth of his palm bleeds into George’s shirt over the small of his back, even though Harry isn’t quite touching as he guides George into the house. “I like to cook and I hadn’t eaten either. I was all absorbed in X Factor.”

“Do you want any help?”

“I’m alright. Go on and take a bit of a nap, I’ll wake you in half an hour or so. D’you like spag bol? I forgot to ask.”

“I do,” George confirms. “Caroline says yours is bad.”

“How very dare she,” says Harry without any malice. “Well, if it is, I apologize in advance. _I_ like it, anyway.”

George smiles at him sleepily. “I’m sure it’s tasty. I don’t remember how to get to my room.”

Harry shows George the way, and he kisses George’s cheek softly at the door before turning to disappear into the kitchen, from where George can already smell simmering garlic and tomatoes. George doesn’t shut the door all the way when he flicks off the lights, pulling off the thick navy-striped jumper to sleep in just his sweats and a t-shirt, cuddled beneath the blankets Harry had bought just for him. They’re very fuzzy, and it’s easy to turn his face into the pillows and drift back into sleep much more restful than he’s had sharing a room with Jaymi’s increasingly irksome snoring.

This time, it isn’t surprising when Harry wakes him, one gentle hand rubbing light circles over George’s back until he stretches, wiping his drool on the pillowcase before Harry can see. 

“Do you want eat?” Harry whispers. “I can put your plate in the fridge.”

“No, that’s alright.” George twists so that his back will crack, then sighs. “Thank you for the extra time. I can do the dishes to make it up.”

Harry shrugs one shoulder. “If you really want to stack them in the washer and press the button, I guess you can. It’s not a big deal.” He’s walking two steps ahead of George down the corridor, his hands stuck at his sides oddly uselessly, like he doesn’t want to hide them in his pockets but isn’t used to keeping them swinging on his own.

George reaches out and touches one of Harry’s slack palms with the tip of a finger. It opens like an orchid, useful again. And George slips two of his fingers around two of Harry’s, just shortening the gap between them, to follow the rest of the way into the kitchen. 

Harry slides his hand free when they pass the refrigerator and ducks half-inside. “What d’you want to drink? I’ve orange juice, apple juice, beer, water. Or you can make coffee, if you want; could teach me how.”

“Whatever you want’s fine,” George says, frowning, as he pulls out Harry’s chair. The food’s already in dishes at the center of the table, so he scoots around to his own chair and stands next to it to wait for Harry to sit.

After they have water and are seated, food on their plates and Harry already begun eating, George says, “Thank you for cooking… you didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Harry says quietly. “I just wanted to. You did really, really well tonight, you know, and like… I—I want to make things easier for you. Where I can.”

“I wasn’t accusing,” George apologizes. “I was just trying to be honest.”

“I know,” Harry says, “But I could still do more. And I’m…” he sets down his fork. “I’m so, so sorry for like, basically, I just didn’t realize how much I was hurting you to like, have—mate—have sex. I’ve been feeling awful about it since your Heat at the middle of the week but I didn’t think, basically, that I should apologize in a text.”

George knows his face is pink. “Is this really dinner talk?”

“Sorry.” Harry ducks his head, and his face is shining a little, too. “I just couldn’t stand it not saying sorry any longer.”

George spins his fork on his plate, gathering noodles. Like with most things about Harry, George is learning, Caroline was wrong: they’re delicious, at least better than the Sainsbury’s ready-meals his dad is famous for. The tension pain behind his eye is back, or maybe it never left. “It’s not—it wasn’t you, that made it—it just—it’s not… that. It’s just Heat. Heat hurts, but you—having—you haven’t hurt me. You said I should tell you if you do, and I would.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks. “You didn’t tell me that you didn’t even want a Bond, when we Bonded.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“That was a _month_ ago.”

“It was a long month,” George protests. “A lot’s happened in that month. I’d tell you; I promise. I—you—it doesn’t hurt,” he says, and swallows around a lump of spaghetti and emotion that’s stuck in his throat.

“What can I do?” Harry asks finally, after they’ve both eaten their full plates and served themselves more, George waiting for Harry to show the fair portion sizes with his own helping. “To make things easier for you? That I’m not doing? ‘Cause I don’t think I actually know what to do, the longer I know you. I just keep making a fool of myself.”

“You don’t,” George assures him, and under the table his toes find Harry’s ankle. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be easy for me, is it? If it were, like. There’d be more omegas doing X Factor, or—I don’t know. If it were supposed to be easy, then it’d be different.”

“But that doesn’t mean it’s supposed to be hard,” Harry argues. “And I feel like… well you said I’m making it harder.”

“Not you. Just the interviews and the paps and you know, people on Twitter.” George pauses, trying to sort out the feelings tangled in his gut, stringing apart which are his and which nerves are Harry’s. “It does help, having you around, with all those. I—thank you, for always being kind about me.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Harry sounds genuinely puzzled. “You’re my Bond. And I love you. If that’s awkward when I say it, then I can stop. Saying it, I mean, but probably—probably not doing it.”

“It’s okay,” George murmurs. He taps his toes against Harry’s ankle beneath the table again. “It’s not awkward.” He swallows the last of his spaghetti. “I like it. When you—it’s nice to hear, isn’t it? It’s always nice to hear. It’s why it’s nice to have fans. Not that I have many these days.” He sighs heavily, fork settling on his plate with a clink. “I won’t have any after tomorrow. The bottom two is gonna be us and either Rylan or Baloney.”

“It might not be,” Harry says. “You—never mind.” He shakes his head.

“What?”

“I don’t know whether maybe it was mean, so never mind.”

“No,” George says. “Tell me.”

“Just, it seems sometimes like you think you’re still the only omega around, but you aren’t. And I know a lot of people are supporting you, and also, you guys are good singers. I just think, sometimes, you see things worse than they are. Sometimes. Basically.” Harry keeps his shoulders small as he takes up both plates and sets them in the sink of soapy water to soak. “Anyway, did you want to just sleep, or I don’t know, watch a film?”

“We can watch a film.” George keeps his eyes on Harry as he moves around the kitchen, closing drawers and making sure everything spattered in sauce makes its way to the sink. It’s something he should be doing, not Harry, but George feels too warm and sleepy in his pyjamas in Harry’s quiet house. “Whatever you like.”

“You can choose this time,” Harry says. “I did last time, and I don’t think you liked _Mamma Mia!_ at all, which I don’t understand, basically. It’s charming.”

“Pierce Brosnan cannot sing.” George stands when Harry starts the dishwasher, a low hum behind them as he takes George’s hand to walk to the living room. 

The sofas are huge and squashy, and George doesn’t even care what they watch because odds are that he’s just going to fall asleep on Harry’s chest. Harry keeps the lights low, then bangs on the wall to stop the ebbing wail of the old pipes feeding the dishwasher (or Dick the Highwayman’s Ghost, whichever). Everything smells of Harry and clean lemon soap, and there are strange knickknacks lining the walls from the places that Harry’s traveled and George has never been. There’s a bowl of orange peels and an empty beer bottle on the coffee table from where Harry had watched George perform on the X Factor only hours ago, and he gives George a sheepish smile as he moves them to the floor so they can both stretch out their lanky legs.

“What d’you want to watch?” Harry asks. His arms stretch long across the back of the sofa, and it’s easy to settle against the curve of his side, George’s face tucked up against Harry’s shoulder so he can yawn and hide it against Harry’s neck.

“I don’t care,” George says. “Whatever you like. I just want to be… not at the Corinthia, for a bit.”

“Okay,” Harry murmurs, and he slowly wraps one arm around George’s back. “D’you mind if I catch up on Bake-Off, then? I still have the semis and the final to watch. I’d been following it with Nick, but—well, you know.”

“Yeah, fine,” George says. He inches just a little closer to Harry so he can lie more comfortably against him. He rests his chin on Harry’s shoulder. “Be nice to watch someone nice win a competition.”

“Oh!” Harry pauses his Skybox and George feels the little dip in his gut as Harry’s embarrassment flares. “Should we not watch a reality show, then? Only until after you’re through to next week?”

It’s nice, that Harry doesn’t seem to stumble over the words at all. He just says it like it’s a fact, _until you’re through to next week_ , not ‘until you’ve gone home’ or ‘if you get through to next week.’ It’s just something that he considers the truth—that Union J is sticking around. That George has done well enough that people will all want him to stay. 

“It’s alright,” George says. “Gary isn’t half as intimidating as Paul Hollywood. It’s the Bake-Off contestants I pity.”

“Yeah, but they get Mary Berry,” Harry points out, and he starts up the program again. “And she’s so much cuter than Louis Walsh.”

George huffs a laugh into the side of Harry’s shirt. “A walrus is cuter than Louis Walsh.”

Harry swallows, his arm curling a little tighter around George. The kernel of Harry’s feelings that lives in George’s stomach ebbs, the embarrassment fading away and leaving only a faint hum behind, something a shade too warm to be contentment.

Harry is nervous.

But he shouldn’t be, George thinks. There’s nothing that he’s done wrong, not today. Not in a while. The tea was good, the house is quiet. He’s warm and soft and cozy to cuddle down against; it smells like Harry showered before George came by, the faint trace of soap lining the edges of Harry’s softly sweet scent where George has his face pressed into Harry’s side. He slips his arm around Harry’s stomach just to have somewhere to put it, hoisting himself a touch nearer as he does. The last time he’d spent time at Harry’s house, they’d sat just like this, but Harry hadn’t felt nervous—George had been able to tell. He’d been pleased. Relieved, maybe, because he’d been nervous before, but he wasn’t still nervous with George sitting so close. 

“Hey,” George says softly. “Thank you for letting me come over. It’s been a long few days, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. He turns down the volume of the television set, some sort of Fraisier crisis droning dramatically in the background. “D’you want me to leave you alone? Or—like you can go to your room, if you like, and. I like your company, but if you’d feel better just being alone, I understand. I did the show, too.”

“It’s okay,” George says. He plays with a loose thread from Harry’s jumper. “I’m not great at being alone. Family’s too big and the house is too small, and then there are always J’s about.” He swallows. “I like your company, too, though. I promise.”

Something flutters in the base of George’s gut, but it might not be entirely due to the flood of emotion from Harry. It’s easy to feel him when they’re this close. George hasn’t tried to put a name on whatever it is that being around Harry makes him feel, but he knows that it isn’t what he’d expected from the Bond alone. He’s just a nice person. Although he smells very good, soft maple and woodsy truffle and sun-drenched pumpkin run through with sugar and oaken smoke. It makes George dizzy, like when he’d inhaled from a helium balloon at his birthday once to make his voice squeaky. Like he might float.

“Have you had it bad this week?”

Harry’s cheek rests against the top of George’s head. “I don’t suspect as badly you have. Louis took the piss a bit. Simon whined, seems to think he has to sign you lot now, but I know for a fact he already was planning it.”

George tightens his hand in Harry’s shirt. “How’d you know that?”

“You’re on X-Factor,” Harry says. “And you’re in the top five. At least. I bet you’ll beat us.”

“Ha.” George snorts, tilting his head into Harry’s cuddle. “Wait, why was Louis taking the piss? What’s he got to laugh about? At least I’m not thirty.”

“Nick’s not thirty,” Harry says. “He was just laughing at me ‘cause I had on those hot pink pants in that photo and they were sticking out the back of my jeans. There’s never pictures of me with my pants showing when I have normal colors on, are there? Just my lucky chartreuses and those.”

“He wasn’t—it’s alright if your friends think it’s weird that you’re with me.” George slips his hand beneath the hem of Harry’s jumper. He isn’t wearing a t-shirt beneath it, and his skin is blazing warm. “You’re like, well famous.”

“Yeah, but who cares?” So matter-of-fact. “Niall’s omega isn’t famous at all, she’s just a student. It doesn’t matter whether someone’s famous, just like. If they’re nice and you get on with them. And I think, you know. We’re starting to get on. Aren’t we?”

George nods, shifting so he can look up at Harry. “Yeah, we get on.” He runs his thumb over Harry’s waist and Harry giggles, ticklish, a hail of bright feeling welling up between them both. Harry’s face is so close, and his lips are so pink, and it’s quiet and George is being laughed _with_ instead of laughed _at_ for the first time in what feels like ages, and it’s easy to just lean up and press a tiny kiss to Harry’s mouth. 

It’s over almost before it’s begun, but the taste of him is still on George’s lip when he sucks it into his own mouth, cheeks pink and hot. 

Harry looks shell-shocked. “What was that for?”

“I don’t know,” George says honestly. “I… just wanted to. I guess.” He flushes down to his shirt-collar. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Harry’s eyes sparkle, huge and glazed. The light from the television is reflected across them, distorted and strange and backward, desert stripes of pink and green. He swallows, and his Earth’s apple bobs, all Alpha. He smells sweet. He blinks at George twice, their breath caught up between them and hearts beating fast, before he leans down to George again, softer and slower this time. Still chaste. A press. A release. A kiss. 

It’s been such a long week of people asking George about what it’s like to do, exactly, this. And such a long week of them saying he shouldn’t get to do it, that it’s not something he deserves, that he hasn’t earned Harry or that he’s somehow made Harry worse. But they don’t know, do they, even if they think they do. What it’s like to be with Harry. Even George doesn’t really know yet; he’s only just beginning to figure it out.

It’s always softer than he thought. Harry only ever touches George like he’s made of glass: his hands are gentle and soft where they cup George’s jaw, the tips of Harry’s fingers beneath George’s ear and it would almost tickle, the way his skin is so sensitive there. The television is still on behind them, trumpeting quietly in patriotic triumph as someone or other bakes something delicious and puffs up. All of the finalists this year are betas, but George doesn’t care. Neither he nor Harry are paying them any mind.

Maybe he shouldn’t, but George—wants. Things never go right between them when George and Harry kiss; if it doesn’t go wrong for George, all lopsided and panicky, then it all goes pear-shaped for Harry and he ends up injured. Logic would say that sooner or later, it won’t be Harry who ends up hurt when they fall into each other’s gravity like this.

But George still wants it. And Harry’s so careful with him. This part, they do well, George thinks, just kissing. When he opens his eyes, Harry’s watching him right back, and they both have to pull away and giggle because the closeness makes them each look like a blurry cyclops.

“Alright?” Harry asks.

George nods. “Yeah, ‘s’good. Are you alright?”

“Breathing.” Harry grins, his cheek dimpling. “So I can’t complain.”

One of Harry’s hands slides away from George’s cheek, following down over his neck and back in a long, smooth line. It pulls George closer, and the only place to go is to ease into Harry’s lap, one leg on either side of him. He’s taller than Harry like this, and it feels good to look down at him. George feels… powerful. The way Harry’s looking up at him, one hand so warm against the skin at the small of George’s back, it doesn’t make any sense how anyone could say they didn’t want Harry. It doesn’t seem possible.

He could have someone hard and harsh, someone who would never learn to look at him like this. But, thinking back: Harry always has. It just makes George feel all the luckier. 

“Can I kiss you again?”

Harry nods, his hand inside George’s shirt to pull him back down for another kiss, this one sloppier but still _good_. George shuffles on his knees closer to Harry. They both have to slough laughs against lips when Harry pulls away to turn off the television because Paul Hollywood ranting about gluten structure just doesn’t fit the mood. 

George doesn’t really know what the ‘mood’ is. He’s warm. And they’re alone. Harry’s breath is shaky whenever they pull apart to inhale, but George can feel in the pit of his stomach that Harry is as present as he is. He’s not going to stop breathing, this time. He can just tell.

The room is so quiet without the television on. The pipes have stopped clamoring—Dick the Ghost’s become bored with them, or else he’s not much of a voyeur. Or maybe the dishwasher’s just stopped as well. All George can hear is his own heartbeat in his ears as Harry touches his skin, light hands rubbing up and down George’s back until—George yawns, right into Harry’s mouth.

When Harry pulls back to laugh this time, George’s face glows bright red. “I’m so sorry!”

Harry kisses George’s forehead. “Don’t be. D’you want to go to sleep?”

“If that’s okay with you,” George says, yawning again, so hard his eyes scrunch up. “Else I can try that coffeemaker.”

“’Course it’s okay.” Harry gives George a smile and rubs his back just under the chunky sweater, but over George’s t-shirt, gone a bit damp with sweat. “I do remember the Lives; they’re exhausting. And I could probably do with getting a bit more sleep myself.”

It would make sense to get off Harry’s lap, but George still doesn’t. He brushes one of Harry’s curls away from his brows instead and asks, “Where… I mean, I really appreciate that you got my own room. It’s really comfortable. But, erm, it’s—you said you don’t like sleeping alone?”

“I can, though,” Harry assures him. His hands are still on George’s hips, too, but he won’t quite meet George’s eyes. 

George coughs. He really has slept better on all of the nights that Harry’s come to the Corinthia to stay—something about his presence makes Jaymi’s snoring easier to ignore, maybe, or maybe it just makes Jaymi try a bit harder to sleep on his front. When Harry isn’t there, it isn’t as though George stays awake all night, unable to get comfortable, or has night terrors, or anything like that. It’s just that when Harry _is_ there, it’s easier to feel grounded. Well-rested. Without the meat of his bones searching through nothing to find their match in Harry, it’s just easier to really fall into… George is justifying too much. He just likes having Harry beside him at night, if pressed. He’s warm and he smells so good and George does love a cuddle.

“Erm, if you want, you can share my bed,” George says, and Harry’s head tilts up to look at him as though it might be a trick. 

There’s another kiss for that, this one colored with the sweet-melting warmth of Harry’s hopefulness lighting up both of their insides. “Okay.”

While Harry is off upstairs changing into pyjamas, George sets about exploring his room a little—it has its own bath attached, complete with pipes that don’t seem quite as haunted as the others, when George turns on the tap to wash his face. There are extra blankets in the cupboard and blackout curtains on the window. Those will be perfect for when George is in Heat, he thinks, what serendipity, until he realizes that of course, that’s why Harry bought them. Just for George. Because he would need them to be comfortable and safe.

There’s a knock at the jamb while George is washing his face clean of the evening’s stage makeup.

“Are you sure you want me to stay down here?”

George wipes soap away from the curve of his neck. The flannel comes away smeared with tan. “I wouldn’t have offered if I weren’t. Really. I promise.”

Harry nods. He’s holding a toothbrush and toothpaste even though George knows for a fact he has at least two bathrooms upstairs. “Alright. Can I?”

“It’s your house.” George shuffles off to the side to keep scrubbing. He always looks so pale and sickly in the first few strokes of makeup coming off, like he’s on the last day of a Heat on no sleep. But he feels fine tonight—other than being tired, there’s an energy in the air around him that’s propping him up. 

Harry slides his toothbrush under the tap. In the mirror, his reflection has hunched-down shoulders, but he meets George’s eyes in the glass and says, “It’s our house, you know. Unless you don’t want to move in after all.”

That’s a lot. To share a house. George will have never lived on his own, not a day in his life. He’d always wanted to, as well; somewhere he could lie about on the furniture in his pants and not be looked at and judged by anyone, somewhere he could stay up late watching horror films with all the doors locked or playing guitar or Pokémon until all hours without anyone nagging that he should get his rest. And George does still want to move in. He just hadn’t ever thought of it in terms of _sharing_ the house. It being theirs. He’d more assumed that Harry saw him as a guest or a tenant. Maybe a live-in caretaker while One Direction are on tour, things like that.

“Oh,” is all George says after he rinses and wrings out his flannel. “I guess you’re right. I’ll pay back my half, then, as soon as I can. I only have eleven pounds on me now. I don’t suppose that buys much, but you can have it for the spag bol.”

Harry frowns until he sees George’s lifted eyebrow in the mirror. Then he smiles, only a little cautiously. “You really think I could charge eleven a head for that? Proper Gordon Ramsay, I am.”

“He bullies those poor betas too much,” George says, frowning. “I think I’d rather you be Mary Berry. But not eighty.”

“I think I’d rather be Mary Berry, as well,” Harry says around his toothbrush, white foam on his lips. “She’s adorable.” He spits. “You don’t need to pay me for anything, you know. I’m not going to tell you that you can’t, because I know my mum has a thing about that and so like, you might also have a thing about it? But… you really don’t need to. I’ve more than enough for us and like, anyone in our f—our family for our whole lives, basically.” He spits again, then grins in the mirror. “That way, if you like, you can use all your Union J money on Archie and the others, if you want. Or on yourself. Buy a load of white tigers or something splashy.”

“Don’t think I fancy any white tigers,” George laughs. He spits around his own toothbrush, then stands and takes the piece of dental floss Harry’s offered. They stand in silence for a minute beside each other, both pulling grotesque faces in the mirror around the thread.

They do look a bit alike. Harry’s Alphaesque and George’s own small omeganess aside. They’re nearly the same height, their hands the same kind of overlarge, like they haven’t grown into themselves yet. They both have wide lips that are fuller on the bottom than the deeply-bowed tops. Big eyes. 

They look, if George is honest, good together. He’s narrow in the places that Harry is broad and soft where Harry is too sharp. They match, but like puzzle pieces and not lucky dice: the edges fold into each other instead of adding up. George hasn’t been recast in Harry’s image, like he thought he might be. He still has his crooked teeth and turned-up nose; Harry is still the only owner in the world of four nipples. And those tattoos. George’s robins dark against Harry’s collarbone. 

He has more of George on him than George has ever worn of Harry. Something that makes George feel an inch taller flashes inside him at that, as he stares at their mismatch in the mirror. 

Harry glances over at him and smiles. He felt it too, then. 

After they’ve both finished their teeth, Harry’s hand walks over the small of George’s back, soft enough that it’s barely a weight over his t-shirt. “So, basically, now that we both have clean teeth instead of Bolognese-y mouths, can I have a kiss? Or do you prefer the like, garlicky residue? I can learn to live with it, if you do.”

“I do like a good residue.” George knits his brow even as he lets Harry draw him up against the front of his body. Harry’s all skin, no shirt on and his soft pyjama trousers slung low enough on his hips that it makes George blush a bit. 

His hands steady themselves on George’s hips. “Really?”

George snorts. “No.”

“Oh.” Harry presses his thumbs into the hollows of George’s hipbones as he leans in to kiss him. It does taste better this time. Fresh. This time the kiss deepens more easily, and Harry’s tongue touches against George’s lower lip just briefly enough for George to sigh and let him in. Harry’s big hands gather him closer. There’s a _lot_ of Harry’s skin so close like this, the dizzying scent of him bleeding through George’s thin t-shirt to warm him with a softly prickling lazy heat. It feels like lying out in the sunshine and letting it bring up color in George’s skin. Harry’s tongue is soft against George’s and it all feels… luxurious. George can’t help but to wrap his arms around Harry’s shoulders and keep him there a minute.

It’s late and dark in Harry’s big house, and the skin around George’s eyes still feels stretched with exhaustion, but there haven’t been many things in his life that felt as _his_ as this kiss—and this night, and this boy—does. If his fingers twist into the soft curls at the base of Harry’s neck, then it’s only George clinging at the strands of that feeling before it all goes away.

But Harry does pull back eventually, rubbing the tip of his nose against George’s. “Let’s go to bed.”

George swallows and nods. He lets himself keep his hands against the soft muscle of Harry’s arms as he steps back, touching bare skin on one side and a mass of ever-changing black ink on the other. Harry smiles at him, touches George’s cheek lightly, and then extinguishes the bathroom light to leave them in darkness.

Without Heat, George’s eyes adjust slowly as they pad their way to his bed. He can just barely make out the shape of Harry sliding under the blankets on the opposite side. His shoulders and waist make a strong, sharp triangle, but George doesn’t feel anything but secure when he crawls between the sheets and Harry’s arms wrap around him.

“Night,” Harry murmurs, and he kisses George again in the dark. 

It’s too quick for George to do much more than purse his lips back and whisper _g’night_ , but that’s alright. It’s like lying down after such a long day—such a long week—flips a switch in George’s brain and he’s asleep almost immediately, so comfortably sunk in the warm bedding and solidity of Harry’s embrace. Sharing a bedroom with Jaymi for the last month made George forget just how deep sleep could be, and living in the Corinthia, with its anti-omega policy-by-rote if not by writ, meant that this was the first night in weeks that he got to sleep in a room as truly dark as he liked. Their legs intertwine. George stays tucked close into Harry’s front, soaking up the extra warmth and sweet pear scent of him with every breath. 

Everything around George smells of autumn: pomegranate and walnut and frangipane, bittersharp bruised apples carrying on the smoke from burning oak leaves, heady and rushing as it brushes over George, lifting his hair with light fingers and trickling down his back in warm waves. He sinks into the blue-green curls of it, breathing in the autumn of it all as it breathes him back, taking him in with gentle ebbs and crests and waves. There’s a quiet laugh on the edge of the wind and it’s bright as sunlight but steady as earth—even though George is rising and falling, he’s tethered to something strong and protective. There’s a flash of lip and teeth as the light hooks into George’s belly and brightens, bringing him forward into soft and wet and warm, toasted sugar on the edge of a scorch in George’s mouth and sweet slick edging down over his skin. 

George breathes, shaky on the exhale, and warmth breathes back. He’s beginning to know this softly sunbaked type of heat, the press of it against his back and kissing over the nape of his neck and the shivers of his shoulders: heavy, bright pinpoints of sensation filling George from the inside out, familiar fingers ghosting over the insides of George’s thighs and the front of his belly, trailing up to barely coax at his nipples. The scent of beechwood trees and cattails and Alpha is everywhere, and George could drown in the pink clouds of it.

He breathes again on a moan this time, quiet in the dark and just enough to rouse himself from the Cheshire green dream and into the inky dark of the bed he’s sharing with Harry. George moans again softly at the taste of salt-sweat against his lips where his face is pressed to Harry’s chest. He hitches himself closer to Harry lazily and his small, stiff cock presses up against Harry’s hip. It feels—George bites his lip and softly does it again, recalling the warm waxing pink feeling in his dream, and like this, he isn’t entirely sure he’s not still there.

His own scent is on the air as much as Harry’s here in reality, though. He can smell it, sour orange and tangerine and omega need. It had clung to George’s bed all week after his Heat because he’d soaked right through to the mattress. George has always hated the smell of himself, associated it with desperation.

The underlying pointed _need_ of Heat doesn’t prick at George now—this is softer, rounder, sloped and curving around him like ribbon. It’s _want_.

He presses his face against Harry’s chest and breathes in. Harry rumbles low and quiet, and his lips brush the top of George’s head.

George startles, pulling back with his face hot. “Sorry, I—” He shakes his head and starts to carefully disengage from Harry, already halfway out of bed before he says, “You can go back to sleep, I don’t know what… don’t know what’s happened.”

Harry’s fingers slide around George’s wrist to keep him close. “I could feel you,” Harry murmurs. Everything is always more private in the dark, both of them whispering like if they don’t, they’ll wake the rest of the world and break the molten glass veneer on this bubble before it has a chance to harden. “In that dream.” He pauses, and George hears him swallow. “Me, too. Please come back?”

In the dark, Harry looks smaller. He looks earnest and quiet, just in the shape of him. And he smells so good that George’s head is swirling with it. He’s still wet, and he can feel the memory of dream-Harry’s hands in all of his soft places. George settles back into bed beside Harry carefully so as not to brush Harry with his hard little dick. He knows that Harry can smell him just as well as he can, if not more than that. He lies against the pillows again, but Harry keeps upright, looking down at the reflection of George’s silhouette.

“Y’alright?”

George nods, staring up at the shape of Harry. The ends of his hair catch the faint echoes of light. He looks like he has a halo. And of course he does, the Alpha of Alphas. He’s beautiful. “Yeah.”

“Can I kiss you again?”

This time when George nods, Harry eases himself down over George until he’s surrounded by scent again. There’s no way to avoid Harry feeling that he’s hard and he’s wet now, because Harry settles his hips against George’s before their mouths even touch. 

Everything about him is hot, and their mingled scents seem to magnify with every breath trapped beneath the sheets with them. George shivers under Harry even though every inch of him feels overheated pressed up against his Alpha like this, something he’s known before but not with this same slow-syrupy pour like water heading towards the edge of a cliff and unknown on the other side.

It’s scary, but quietly. 

Harry kisses him again, pressing his hips down against George’s and George moans softly against Harry’s mouth as he works up, rutting on him. Harry is steady and gentle, but he seems impatient—flighty, maybe, like he’s looking for something that George can’t see. He can’t stay in one place, can’t keep his lips against George’s when they could be pressing to George’s cheeks and chin and the side of his neck.

That makes George gasp. The soft-sucking kisses over the thumping vein at the side of his throat. Harry’s still hard and moving slowly so George can slide up against him. One of Harry’s big hands slides under George’s hips to cup around his bum and help him move—his fingertips are light against where George is wet and open and scenting, but that only makes George clutch Harry closer and tip his head back for more of those dragging kisses.

Harry mouths at the collar of George’s t-shirt, setting the blunt edges of his teeth against the hollow between George’s clavicles. “Can I take this off?” When George hesitates, Harry just kisses the hidden skin tucked beneath the collar’s edge. “That’s okay.” One of his hands smooths over George’s skin under the material, raising gooseflesh. The palm of his hand brushes over a swollen nipple.

George arches his back. It’s so dark and so silent and they’re so alone—and Harry won’t judge him, not for this. He can feel Harry wanting him just as badly, a carnelian-hot tug in the pit of their bellies pulling them together. The candyfloss haze of the dream is still fluttering around George, leaving a sugar shine on everywhere Harry’s fingers trail over his skin as he kisses down over the cotton of George’s shirt and pushes it up, slow and tentative, to freckle kisses over George’s ribs. 

The dark silence of the room lies lightly, making everything George is feeling spread out through the air instead of pressing down to suffocate him the way it does during Heat. He sighs, shivering and shifting his thighs open around Harry’s ribs, as Harry nuzzles his way down George’s chest. 

The tenderness in the way Harry kisses over George’s belly makes his heart clench. He tucks his fingers into Harry’s soft hair, holding it away from his face so it doesn’t tickle as Harry runs his nose along the edge of George’s navel.

The hand not touching over George’s nipples slides along the back of his thigh, palm flat as Harry kneads over George’s thin leg. His tongue tastes the smooth skin just above the waistband of George’s pyjamas, breath so hot and so close to George’s achingly hard cock where it’s pushed up against the material that George whimpers.

“Can I?” Harry’s voice sounds ragged, like he’s run thousands of miles to get here.

George swallows. “What?”

Harry’s eyes never leave George’s face as he dips lower to drag his mouth across the soft material of George’s pyjama pants, his breath hot as it flows over George’s cock. His lips are careful as he kisses over the thin, tapered shape of the tip through the fabric. George’s fingers flex in Harry’s hair and Harry murmurs, “Go down on you. Please?”

George shakes his head. “I don’t—know—”

Harry rubs his hand lightly over the inside of George’s thigh, scandalously low and near where the material is damp through with slick and scent. “I want to—put my mouth on you. Feels good. I promise. I won’t if you don’t want; I can just touch you.”

“Why would you want to do that?” George squirms.

“I like it,” Harry says. “I’m good at it. And I want you to feel good, I just—I haven’t been good at that, yet, but I know this would be.”

George shifts one leg, and Harry turns his head to kiss it. “Does it hurt?”

Harry shakes his head. “I told you, I don’t ever want to hurt you. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop, I promise. I just—” he exhales on a sigh. “You smell so good.”

And George knows that Harry means it, all of it. He can feel a dark burnt-sugar throb in the place where Harry’s emotions are shining inside him, and Harry _wants_ so badly that it is, almost, a need, a compulsion to make George feel better and better and best. The way Harry is enamored with George feels so bright it’s glowing pink like embers. George touches the curve of Harry’s jaw. He knows that Harry can feel that he’s nervous, spiky and green, but he nods anyway. “Okay. What do I do?”

“Just lie back,” Harry murmurs, a giddy grin on his face. “If you don’t like it, please say something.”

George nods, and he does lie back against the pillows, his lower lip sucked between his teeth. He keeps one hand on Harry’s shoulder just to get the measure of him, but his other hand curls tightly into the pillowcase beside his head as an anchor.

Harry kisses George’s belly again and each of his hipbones, slow, giving George the time to back out if he wants before Harry eases George’s pyjamas down over his thighs and knees. George tries his best to help get them off over his feet, both of them flailing a little, and Harry looks up at George to share a small, nervous, secretive giggle before insinuating himself between George’s thighs again. 

George squeaks when Harry kisses the crease of his thigh, the palest thinnest skin right at the edge of his pants. “Tickles.”

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs, nosing in again to kiss and breathe. “Relax.”

The scent of George, all satsuma and saltwater, is heavy in the air. George can almost see clouds of it, cut through where Harry’s bleeding soft vanilla. Harry presses his face against the front of George’s pants, hot mouth right over the stem of George’s cock, and breathes.

“Are you—are you _smelling_ me?” George goes red.

“Yeah,” Harry says, unabashed. His fingers crawl up under George’s t-shirt again to circle over one nipple and make George’s cock jump. “I like it.” He draws his lip over the shape of George beneath his underwear. “Can I take these off, too?”

“Will that make it better?”

Harry wets his lip. “Yeah. Well, I don’t—I’m not an omega, so I don’t know. It makes it more, like, intense, basically.”

George blinks and touches his thumb to Harry’s lip. “Would you? I mean, do you—well, should I?”

Harry nods. He’s almost inaudible when he breathes _yeah_ across George’s thumb.

“Okay.”

Harry’s hands seem to cover every inch of George’s skin as he eases the sticky pants down off of him, and George feels so open and exposed like this, even though Harry’s seen him this way dozens of times by now—did just the other day—and sometimes, in brighter light. He knows that Harry can’t _see_ him like this, but the frisson in the air makes him feel it acutely, the sensation of Harry moving even where they aren’t touching, the variable cold of an invisible draft sweeping through this old, haunted house. It feels, for the first time, strange to have his shirt on, so while Harry is setting George’s pants aside, he shrugs it off, but keeps it close across the pillow like a security blanket.

When Harry wraps his hands around George’s hips again, he pauses and George feels the jolt of it run through them both. “Are you naked?”

George nods, the crinkling sound of the pillow answer enough.

“Oh, god.” Harry settles between George’s legs, his hands moving in a constant circuit over George’s thighs and hips and belly and bum, his grip tenuous but firm as he opens George’s thighs wide enough that Harry can fit there. “Gorgeous.”

Silence. Except the pound of his own heartbeat in George’s ears.

Breath ghosts first, tiny and puffing, before Harry kisses the electric join between George’s cock peeking up with obsessive curiosity and the soft, open, leaky-wetness hiding beneath it. 

George whimpers, startling up, his thighs snapping shut around Harry’s head before he glows with embarrassment and pries them open again so Harry can keep breathing. “Sorry, I—what—sorry, I—”

Harry nuzzles at George’s thigh, a safe place. Simple skin. “You’re okay. D’you want me to stop?”

“I—” George is on fire, melting in every direction at once. Yes, he does want Harry to stop; this is new this is scary this is something so, so private and a place that isn’t for him, but—no, he doesn’t want Harry to stop. This is new. And brave. And this is private: no one will know except Harry and George, together. “I’m okay.”

Harry’s tongue is impossible when it laves over George’s skin, two of Harry’s fingers gently holding him open. The hand George had clutched into the pillowcase leaves it, instead covering his face—the muscles in his thigh and calf and toes are all flexed tight, squeaks and whimpers pushed down deep in his chest so he doesn’t let them out and show what he’s feeling.

Because he doesn’t know. What he’s feeling. It’s good, but it’s too much, it’s bad but not _bad_ \--it’s a kind of good that he’d always thought, always treated, always been taught was bad for being what it was. For being good at all. And it’s _embarrassing_ , it’s mortifying, having Harry—having his mouth, what he must _taste_ , how it smells, orange and blossoms and seaside everywhere; it’ll be clinging to Harry’s lips after. 

But there’s a fierce sort of burning, roaring pride in George’s gut that yeah, this _is_ his own embarrassment. Because it’s something strange, having Harry’s face there. But it’s his—and Harry’s his—and he wants it. He’s going to keep it. It’s _his_ embarrassment, and that’s good.

The sounds that Harry makes are obscene enough that George’s ears are hot—besides the indulgent groans and rumbles of Harry losing himself in George, there’s the sound of wet-slick and his tongue against it, sliding and slurping and sweet-sticky. Harry’s eyelashes are fluttering like George is delectable. It’s sinful how much pleasure Harry is getting from this.

And George doesn’t care.

Let it be.

Every muscle and bone in his body is tuned tight and ready to sing, every bit of him primed to give Harry exactly what he wants, what George wants, everything. The hand not covering his own eyes is woven through Harry’s curls, holding his head just so as George’s hips ride up on Harry’s tongue. Harry has one hand on George’s chest and the other slip-sliding around his tongue, and George knows he should stay still and let Harry do what he needs but he _can’t_. 

George has only ever known this need tinged with darkness—with literal desperation and with panic at being left alone, or what would happen if he weren’t—but his drive towards coming now is only urgent, not necessary. When he tried it alone, it felt like nothing. When he tried with Harry before, his face hidden in Harry’s shoulder and all of their clothes on, it was an epiphany.

This feels like a revelation is brewing.

“Harry—” George chokes. “I need—I don’t know?”

Harry slurs half a sound like he’s drunk on George, and then his palm is sliding undulations over George’s slick while his mouth lowers over George’s little cock, his lips wrapping around the base and tongue working over its length in the impossible warm wet. The sensation so centered that it feels like a supernova, and George explodes outward in all directions in a hail of light and sweet orange scent and one tiny sob.

And Harry puts his pieces together again with light kisses over George’s thighs and knees and up to his cheek again. His hands hold George’s until they stop shaking. Harry is sturdy and protective when George folds himself into Harry’s arms again, face pressed to the curve of Harry’s neck. He isn’t embarrassed—not around Harry, not anymore—but he doesn’t have the words to talk about what just happened. It feels like the universe as realigned, the axis of planets tilting the other way, magnets all pointing South. 

He felt good and nothing bad happened. He felt good and it didn’t hurt, and Harry didn’t blame him or expect anything else from him. George can still feel Harry’s thick cock hard against his belly, but Harry is only holding him close, his cheek against the top of George’s head as he murmurs softly. 

More than Harry’s body, George feels his contentment and pride and concern for George, a lingering toffee-sweetness like he’s turning the vision of George over and over again in his mind to make it last, and the tossing ocean-roll of waiting for George to move or speak or just love him back and say that it was alright.

Because Harry does—love George. That’s never been clearer. Even with the Bond, even as George’s bones had been remaking themselves and his cells and organs knit together new, he’d never felt so much _Harry’s_ as right now.

That’s a lot. He can’t say, rightfully, that he does love Harry back, at least not right now, not when he’s still gone over hazy and pink and half-dreaming. And George knows that Harry can feel that, too, that quiet sense of no mooring. But in almost twenty years of manacles, George has never unlocked himself to feel so light or so _deserving of lightness_ before, and that is down to Harry, and that is something to love. Even if, more than Harry right now, maybe George loves himself—that’s something Harry can feel mirrored right back to him.

Slowly, their breathing slows together, George still naked and tangled in Harry. The blankets fold around them like a cocoon in the dark. Beneath George’s ear, Harry’s heartbeat evens out from its frenzy into what George has become used to, that steady rhythm of Harry. He smells like sleep, even though George lies awake for a long time.

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.


	13. Chapter 13

The alarm is shrill and startling and comes entirely too soon. George jolts awake with the unpleasant twist in his stomach that waking too quickly always causes, his eyes sore and puffy from being shut for too short a time. When he’s done with the momentary panic of remembering what an alarm clock is, he notices—

He’s naked. He’s completely naked, he never sleeps naked, why is he—

 _Harry_.

A smile. “G’morning.”

As Harry leans across George to shut off the alarm clock and flip on the bedside lamp because the omega-friendly blackout curtains on the window keep the room dark as midnight, last night comes crashing down onto George. He pulls the blankets up in a quick jerk to cover his chest, but the comforter smells like him.

No, it smells like _them_. Jam and toast, like Caroline said, orange rinds and almonds. A hot-cold flush sweeps up the inside of one of George’s thighs and down the other until his toes curl. _Did that really happen?_

 _What_ was _that?_

_Is Harry expecting it to happen again?_

Nothing that’s ever happened in George’s life can serve as a reference, really. That was nothing like rubbing up against the mattress while wearing Harry’s jumper. It was nothing, nothing like Heat. He doesn’t even have a word for it; literally, what was that? He came, obviously, and Harry did it, Harry did—

George squirms. He’s scenting, just a little, but enough that beside him Harry’s nose twitches as he stretches.

Harry’s arms are stretched high over his head. There are tufts of hair under his arms and a gallery of tattoos down his side. “That was nice,” he murmurs, his eyelashes low and a little bashful. “I mean, basically, you know, I thought so.” A soft smile ranges across the bed and George can feel the lovelorn swoop in his gut emanating from Harry’s direction. “Did you think it was nice?”

“Erm.” George is very, very still naked. The covers are pulled nearly to his chin. “Can I have some pants?”

“Oh!” Harry scampers out of bed and over to the bureau. There’s a clean six-pack of the same cut of omega pants George has worn every time he’s ever seen Harry, still in its packaging. He tosses it to George, and for once, he manages a catch before a projectile hits him in the face.

After wiggling into his pants under the sheets, George curls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his thighs. “It was nice,” he whispers. “Did you—are you expecting me to—erm, when am I to get, you know. You back?”

There’s a frisson through George’s belly, shivery and curious, and Harry’s head snaps up to consider George on the bed. 

“Is that—do you want to?” Harry’s still pulling up his own pants. George doesn’t think he’s ever seen Harry wear proper Alpha pants before; he usually doesn’t wear any with his jeans, and he’s borrowed from George before even though they don’t fit right. Harry’s thighs are lean and well-muscled. He looks good in his own pants, George thinks, although it’ll always seem strange to him that Alphas wear shorts under their trousers. 

The thought of it makes George’s stomach roil. It’s allegedly an urban legend, but the rumors upon rumors of omegas who suffocated or drowned or choked to death trying all fly in and out of his head. Because maybe they _aren’t_ only rumors – after all, Harry’s accidentally knotted outside of George before.

“No.” He quickly shakes his head, then blushes. “Sorry, I just – ”

“That’s okay,” Harry says. “It’s a lot harder on an Alpha. Caroline and I almost never did it.”

George’s shoulders pull in. He isn’t angry with Caroline, but he doesn’t really want to think about the two of them together and how it led to Harry and himself. Just another thing to make him feel uncomfortable around Caroline now, even though that isn’t fair. If she can’t Bond, why shouldn’t she just love whoever she loves?

But… did she have to love Harry so much that he still mentions it so often?

Harry’s head pops through the neckline of his worn t-shirt and his eyes are wide, almost incredulous. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not,” George protests. “I just don’t like hearing about it. I’m trying to get better. I just… was raised different.” He shifts under the blankets and takes the shirt that Harry’s tossed onto the corner of the bed. “It’s just embarrassing to think about—you know. I guess Josh talks about it enough that I’m getting used to it, though.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be embarrassed,” Harry says. He sits on the edge of the bed to start shimmying into his skinny jeans. George pulls his undershirt on behind the screen of the comforter, and then pushes it away to start buttoning his shirt. Harry pauses after getting his jeans up to his hips and leans over to correct a missed button, his fingers warm where they touch George’s chest through the material. “I know that doesn’t help to say. But like, you’re lovely and just, you don’t need to be embarrassed about it.”

George touches the back of Harry’s wrist where he’s still doing up George’s buttons. “That’s not it. I know I’m like… omegas are just pretty, and then we have the hair and makeup teams on the show and all that. I’m past my ugly duckling stage. It’s just embarrassing talking about—like, you know. You know.”

“But why?” Harry looks confused. “Everyone does it. Besides, like, basically, we’re Bonded, so of course we’re gonna do stuff together. And people know that, too. It’s dumb to pretend like we aren’t. I always hated adults like that when I was growing up. Like, you’ve got kids! I know you’ve had sex, why are you telling me it’s wrong?”

“It’s not wrong if it’s for kids,” George mutters. “That’s what it’s for.”

“If that’s all it was for, it wouldn’t feel good.” Harry pats George’s chest and jumps down from the bed. “Breakfast?”

George nods and slides out of his new bed, too, before putting on yesterday’s jeans. He’s heard Harry’s argument before, but it doesn’t seem to hold enough water to be true. Nothing is that simple. He’d learned in school that the only other animals to mate for pleasure are dolphins, who sometimes kidnap and torture baby porpoises, and pigs.

George doesn’t want to be a pig. 

It’s so sunny in the corridor, without omega-safe curtains in the rest of the big, open house, that the floors and dust motes in the air sparkle, and lights like camera flashes glint from the corners of Harry’s gold records and polished award statuettes. Harry’s stepping into his boots, one hand dipped into the bowl where he keeps his car keys. A rack of beautiful pea coats lines the alcove near the back door, which George hasn’t seen before.

“I thought we’d just get something on the way,” Harry says. “Then you can get the kind of coffee you like, instead of the sludge I know how to make.”

“Are you driving me to the studio?” George has to sit to tie his own shoes, and he looks up at Harry while he does. 

Harry nods and flips the collar of his coat. “I thought I would, yeah, and then stay to watch the result. If that’s alright with you. I didn’t have anything else on for today, but then I’ll be gone all next week for the New York show.”

He says it so casually, _the New York show_. Playing Madison Square Garden is something that George can barely even dream about without getting a little dizzy. 

“I wish I could come,” George says wistfully. “I looked at an arts school for omegas in Brooklyn, but my parents didn’t want me to be so far from home. And with how politics work in America, I just…”

“I don’t blame you,” Harry says. “And I’m glad you went for X Factor instead. Otherwise I wouldn’t have met you, probably. And I’m glad we met.”

George accepts the hand that Harry offers to help him stand, and then Harry helps George shrug into his coat. “I am, too.”

Before meeting Harry, it seemed unthinkable than an Alpha could have insecurities. From being tiny children, they were pretty and charismatic and smart, lessons tailored to their strengths in school and sports, music, art all showcasing people just like them throughout history who had excelled. They were encouraged to use all of their gifts, from their cultivated ones to their beauty, and they all _had it_. It seemed like Alphas everywhere were just pre-destined for fame and money and happiness, all things that were out of George’s reach back in Clevedon.

But since he’s come to London, George has outlasted Alphas—even Ella—in the X Factor. And he’s met Harry, who is clumsy and unsure of himself even though he is so undeniably imbued with Alpha strength. And George does, every day, the same things that Harry does. Not at the same level, George is nowhere near playing Madison Square Garden and acting like it’s just another day at the office, but they both sing and they both sign autographs and they both—they both just try to feel each other out. They were both ambushed by Caroline’s lie, and when Harry looks at George with a wriggle of uncertainty crossing the gap between them, it’s clear that in some things, being an Alpha isn’t the advantage that George assumed it must be.

“Are you really?” Harry asks. “Glad that we met?”

George nods. They open the door and head to the garage and all of Harry’s beautiful cars. “I wouldn’t say it if I weren’t.”

The car still smells new when Harry opens the passenger-side door and George slides inside. The finishings are all smooth leather, and George runs his fingers along the dash while Harry folds his long legs into the driver’s seat and buckles up. The car only purrs when he shifts it into _drive_.

“What would you like for breakfast?” 

George startles a little. “Oh, whatever you want is fine.”

“No,” Harry argues. “You always do that, you know. When I ask what you want to eat or what you want to do, you always say that whatever I want is fine. But that doesn’t answer the question, like. I wanna know what you like. What do you want?”

“Erm.” George swallows. “I don’t—coffee, is good? I’m easy. With breakfast choices, I mean, I’m… they’ve all either got egg in them or they’re sweet, right?”

Harry laughs. “I guess that’s true. But like, just… so you know. I always want to know, basically, really, like I really want to know, what you want, when I ask. So if I say I fancy a Chinese and you’d rather get burgers, just say so. Or,” Harry coughs, “If I ask if you want a knot and you don’t, say that, too.”

“I do,” George says. “I said this morning that I didn’t want to put my—you know, didn’t want you to…” he makes a noise that sounds sort of like a frog being stepped on by a horse. Harry barks a laugh and George goes red, but he can’t blame Harry for laughing at him this time. “Shut up,” George mutters. Harry won’t mind.

“Okay,” Harry says. He’s still snorting. “So, are you thinking something with an egg on it, or something sweet? You need something to get you through the results show.”

Right. That. George’s stomach falls. “I don’t know. What was your last breakfast on the X Factor?”

“Louis made a magic sandwich.” Harry turns the wheel into a car park outside a hole-in-the-wall bakery. “They’re the only thing he knows how to cook, and truthfully, they’re probably pretty awful, but like, I never noticed. It’s just thinking about them now that I think, god, those were greasy.”

Harry’s feeling probes gently at George like a sore tooth. It’s a soft, pulling ache, but it isn’t pain anymore—what’s left behind after a bruise is almost gone. George reaches across the gearshift and rests his hand on Harry’s knee.

“I think I just want coffee and a muffin, maybe.”

“Alright.” Harry smiles and rests his hand over George’s. “Sounds good. Do you mind if I do come to the studio? I won’t if it’ll, like, distract you.”

“No, it’s okay.” George smiles back. “I’d like it, actually. I didn’t invite my family down because it’d be too hard, but I don’t really fancy being alone when we’re kicked off.”

“You’re not gonna be kicked off,” Harry says firmly. “I can tell.”

The faith in Union J is surprising and false, but it’s still nice to hear—it isn’t something that George thinks is widespread, given the messages they’ve been bombarded with on Twitter from the beginning. But stranger things had happened; Ella was gone, after all, and Rylan still here. And it does seem like Parisa had been right all along, and for some people, although maybe not as many as Louis Walsh had hoped, supporting Union J had become a small way to assert themselves. The voice of that little omega who’d called in the night before and asked to talk to George—that’s probably the best thing George has done since he auditioned.

He hopes, for her almost as much as himself, that they really _aren’t_ kicked off today.

Apparently when you’re Harry Styles—or Bonded to him—getting something as simple as coffee and a muffin turns into a theatrical production. A moment of silence and then a growing roar like an atomic bomb made of squealing greet them as soon as they open the door to Costa. It’s one of the shops where George’s picture is up on the wall, although here it’s been defaced with a blacked-out tooth and some wavery “scent” lines around the bum. Hilarious. Harry doesn’t seem to notice as he pastes a bright, lazy smile on his face and goes to sign autographs and give hugs.

For every person giving George the stink-eye, another asks for his autograph, too. He and Harry link arms around the shoulders of a few small beta girls for selfies on their iPhones, too. George knows that he must smell like Harry since neither of them showered; they’re carrying each other’s scents heavily on their skin. It’s silly, but his heart hammers when with every person looking him up and down, he wonders, _can they tell what happened last night?_

Eventually, George’s coffee and Harry’s smoothie come up. They both get a blueberry muffin, and they make it through the crowd back to Harry’s car. The silence inside is startling.

“Is every day like that for you?” George asks. 

“Not every-every day,” Harry says. His arms are relaxed as he shifts the car into drive again and they start off down the road to Fountain Studios. He’s almost glowing with barely-suppressed pride, but George can feel how bright-hot pink it is, softly pulsing behind his gut where Harry’s emotions live. He loves the attention, lives for it. Knows that he deserves it. 

Maybe Harry can feel George’s green-gray unsure hesitation, too. He’s never wanted to be a trophy Bond, and maybe he isn’t now, but until the show ends… there’s just no way to know.

“Hey,” Harry says softly. “You did great. Did you see that little one smile when you signed her t-shirt? I’ve never heard anyone shriek like that before. She sounded like a goat… parrot.”

George giggles. “I’ve never heard a goat-parrot at all, so I’ll take your word for it.”

“You should,” Harry agrees. He looks over to George before glancing back at the road. “You made her really happy.”

Ever since Ella left, the mood at the studio’s gone downhill. Christopher’s more ruthless; Rylan sulks around looking sheepish, which doesn’t become him. And James is becoming slowly ruthless, according to Josh and JJ, although Jaymi is trying to hide it from George. It’s nice of him, but George can’t really be a part of the group if they’re all trying to protect him. He doesn’t need it.

A few weeks ago he might have, but now they’re all in the same boat. They’re all fighting for next week, and it doesn’t matter whether James is being nasty because Josh is part of Union J or because Josh is an omega. He’s just doing it to get Union J off their game, and they _won’t_ be. George can do it now, he can sing his solos and smile and they don’t have any boxes to jump from today. If they need to sing their Save Me song, they can kill it: it’s one that Alphas and omegas both can identify with, unlike their last time, and if that isn’t enough to convince the judges to keep them… it won’t be George’s fault. It’s just the nature of the game. Even One Direction didn’t win.

(There’s an empty spot on Harry’s wall that George can tell was meant to be a winner’s single gold record from X Factor. He likes that Harry keeps it there.)

They’re facing down the same four judges who gave George a ‘yes’ back in July. He knows them now, and maybe Tulisa doesn’t like him as much because he isn’t still out for the taking, but he’s impressed them before. And he’s better now. At singing, for sure. They’ve had coaching. And his haircut, probably. But he doesn’t need to pretend to flirt to feel like he can stand onstage, now. That helps.

Backstage, everyone is glad to see Harry. Even though he never worked with Jamie or Frank, and One Direction stole Lou Teasdale away, he’s popular with the styling team and the rest of the crew. Harry and Dermot laugh like they’ve known each other much longer than the two years they have, and of course Olly and Harry adore each other, good friends.

Caroline flits around the corners, but doesn’t come over. After a little while, and after eating all of the cubes of melon from the craft services table, Harry catches George’s eye.

“Hi, Cazza,” Harry says, after George is at his side. His hair’s already done for the show, and George is swimming in hairspray fumes.

George can’t quite get a read on Harry. Maybe the careful blankness in George’s gut is shared. Neither of them is sure what to feel now.

“Hi,” Caroline says carefully. “How are you, H?”

“I’m alright.” Harry takes George’s hand. “Pretty happy. How are you?”

Caroline smiles, and it’s sad. She doesn’t look so grand and shining anymore, and George doesn’t know whether it’s because he just knows her now or because he’s Bonded, or maybe because the sheen of her faded because she had done what he’d always, always known Alphas would: think they knew what was best for him. Without asking. Without knowing who he was. She did what she thought was right, and it _did_ help, and it _did_ turn out alright, but George spent weeks thinking that the Alpha he should have been afraid of was Harry. And it wasn’t, all along.

“I’m the same as ever,” Caroline says. She smiles, and it’s sad, and she’s still an Alpha. Beautiful, and charismatic, and she’s kind. She did what she thought was best. She just didn't think George was a person enough to ask what would be best for _him_. She didn’t think that of Harry, either, though. And George can’t forget that, but he can forgive it. 

“Break a leg tonight,” George says. He touches Caroline’s shoulder. She still smells good, like palm sugar and caramel, vanilla crème brûlée, lavender soap, and rose perfume. She probably saved him, the night that she called Harry. If anyone else had come across George in the corridor, he wouldn’t have been so lucky. Things are complicated with Caroline, and ‘carefully blank’ is probably the safest thing to feel for a while.

“You, too,” she says. She doesn’t touch him back. “You’ll be great. Tell Josh good-luck from me, too, when you see him. I think he’s gone off with JJ.”

George laughs, rolling his eyes. “Of course he has.”

Caroline leaves to get her nails touched up. George turns and folds his hand into Harry’s, leaning in close and nudging Harry’s shoulder with his own. 

“Y’alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. He kisses George’s cheek very softly. “Thank you.”

When the show kicks off, the contestants all sing together as usual, but it doesn’t sound right without Ella. There will be critics who sling mud and say that of course it sounds off, they’ve lost a powerful Alpha voice and kept the betas and omegas, but they’ll be wrong. It’s just Ella who’s gone. Harry sits in the wings, where he won’t be noticed by the audience, but George can feel him there, yellow-light pride and anticipation pulling in little wisping spikes through the space between them. 

While they await their fate, the guest performers taking over the stage, Josh sits with JJ in his lap as usual, and Olly’s come out to stand by Jaymi. George sits beside Harry, wringing his own hands, but Harry is a steadying presence, one palm curved over George’s knee to keep it from jittering.

And then they go onstage.

And they make it through. They’re called out first, before even Jahmene. George goes startled-numb with shock, and when he looks right to Harry in the wings, he can only imagine the sort of gut-punch he sent Harry’s way by the wide-eyed, doubled-over stare Harry gives him back. And then Josh jumps on George’s back, hollering, and George has to laugh, the wall of nerves totally broken as he spins Josh around. JJ and Jaymi clobber them both in a giant hug, and Jaymi kisses the side of George’s head.

“Knew you could do it, Georgie!”

George shivers happily. “We all did it.”

It’s not a spot in the final—not yet—but it’s another competitor they’re leaving behind. And when the bottom two is Christopher and Rylan, it’s another _Alpha_ that George can say he’s beaten.

He doesn’t bother feeling guilty. 

After the entire weekend of shows has wrapped, Harry follows Union J’s van back to the hotel. Jaymi and Olly are headed to Luton for the night, so George has the room to himself. He smiles at Harry, still buzzing with adrenaline, in the lift on the way to their floor. 

“Congratulations,” Harry says. He pats George’s shoulder. “Knew you’d get through.”

“I didn’t!” George shakes his head. “I really thought this was the last week.”

“You think that every week,” Harry says. “And I keep telling you. You’re great.”

George goes pink and smiles down at his feet. The door dings open, and they head down the hall to George’s room. The carpeting’s been shampooed, again, probably the hotel’s attempt to get the orangey omega scent of George out of the fibers, and their feet leave sodden little prints all the way to the door.

Harry sits on the bed as soon as the doors shut. He fiddles with the remote control. “D’you want to go out tonight? Like, basically, I mean, like, out-out? On a date? There’ll be—I mean, I’m just guessing, but there’ll probably be cameras and stuff, so if you don’t, that’s fine, but I thought, like, to celebrate—”

“No, yeah,” George says. He toes out of his shoes. “Let’s go out. I’ve hardly seen London, really. I just, erm, I wanted to shower first.” 

“Okay.” Harry settles back on the pillows. “D’you mind if I watch telly? I overheard someone on the crew saying Weekend at Bernie’s was playing after Xtra went out.”

“I don’t mind you watching television but don’t watch _that_ ,” George snorts. He pauses outside the door to the bathroom. “You don’t mind if I leave you?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re all sweaty and covered in hairspray. I like you better when you smell like you, and not like Louis Walsh and stage dust.”

George smiles and edges into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He peels out of his clothes and lets the shower run hot. When the air around the water steams up to fog the mirror, George steps under the spray and sighs, excess tension running away down his shoulders. 

Touching his body feels different now, as he soaps up. Like now that he’s finally let it feel something unabashedly _good_ , the nerves have remembered how to come to life and feel at all. There’s a tiny bruise in the shape of Harry’s puckered lips right at the apex of George’s thigh, and it makes him flush icyhot and pink. It doesn’t hurt. It reminds him of a tattoo, little and dark and such a defined shape—but a tattoo like Harry has, that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else. George washes himself clean and lathers his hair twice just to get out all of the hardened hairspray, and he lingers more than he usually might. It doesn’t feel so dire to stop being naked anymore.

He still slips into his clean underwear and t-shirt before leaving the bathroom, though, because Harry is waiting on the bed. He’s watching some old episode of Friends; George can hear the laugh track through the walls. It’s funny to think that it made such waves for being all about betas. That’s how a lot of sitcoms are now—better for love triangles. George likes The Big Bang Theory for Sheldon being an omega, even though the actor who plays him isn’t, of course. And even though he gets mocked for being unBonded at least twice in every episode.

George scrubs his hair with the towel and then just leaves it. It’ll dry looking however it wants, no matter what he does. 

Harry’s laughing at something Chandler said to his duck when George leaves the bathroom. 

He picks his way to the suitcase on the floor filled with his folded clothes and pulls on jeans, blushing and quick, before he says, “So what did you want to do tonight? When we go out?”

Harry rolls over and looks at him. George picks a heavy cable-knit jumper out of his closet and pulls it over his head before peering back at Harry, who says, “I dunno. Something Londonish, if you’ve never really gone out. Maybe we’d go to Shoreditch House? There won’t be cameras inside there, at least, and it’s nice, if you’ve never been. We could go to a club after, if you like. Parisa was saying when she was here that you both used to talk about going if you got famous.”

George blushes. “Maybe we did. I don’t—will they let me into Shoreditch House?” 

Harry scratches the back of his neck. “Er, I think so, yeah, or well—I know they will, like, ‘cause you’re my Bond and I’m a member, and you’re allowed in if you’re, you know, like.”

“Belong to a member.”

“You don’t _belong_ to me,” Harry says carefully. “But yeah, allowances are like. If I had kids, they’d be allowed in, too. Immediate family membership extensions.”

“Right,” George says softly. “We can do that, if you want. Go there, I mean. I’ve heard it’s nice, obviously.”

“I like it,” Harry says. “Cozy. And erm, like, just so you know, they do let omegas be members. You just have a different application. But like, you don’t need one, if you want, ‘cause I can put your name on mine. Saves you like, £600.”

“Well, if it’ll save me £600,” George says lightly. “I guess I’ll take advantage of that, then.”

Harry shuts off the television and stands. He brushes George’s fringe out of his eyes. “You ready to go? If you want, we can just go to Costa instead, and like—”

“No, it’s okay, I’m excited,” George says. “I just need to get my license. It’s in my other jeans.”

Harry smiles. “Okay. I’ll call a car, if you’re alright with me drinking, too. If not, I’ll just drive, but I’m horrible at parking in the East End.”

“No, go ahead.” George finds his ID and his license, counts out his money—probably not enough for more than a drink or two, tops, anyway—and pockets his wallet. His stomach is squirming with nerves, but he’s more anticipatory than afraid. People won’t bother him if he’s with Harry. Going to a club with his own Bond won’t be like walking past that place in Vegas with Josh. He turns and gives Harry a shrug and a grin. “We’ll have fun.”

Shoreditch House is beautiful and swanky, but homier than George would have expected. He’s a little, if he’s completely honest, disappointed by how _normal_ everything, and everyone inside, seems. It’s clear in the tiny details that the tables and chairs are impressive craftsmanship, the food is haute, the cut of everyone’s clothing immaculate, but somehow George had been expecting more… flash. They’d stopped by Harry’s to get their own blazers to wear, dress code requirement, and George had to borrow a pair of Harry’s shoes. He’s not used to wearing Cuban heels, and they feel like stilettos. It’s strange. 

“Harry!” A model whom George faintly recognizes from the front of a magazine pushes forward and air-kisses Harry’s cheek. “It’s been so long, dude! Where have you been?”

“Just busy,” Harry says. He kisses her cheek in response, but actually makes skin-contact. “I’m flying out to New York in a few days, so we’ve been rehearsing and all that. Got a haircut.”

“You should have got them all cut,” she jokes, and that makes George like her better. Clearly, she has things in common with Harry.

“Har har,” Harry says, deadpan. “Have you met George?”

She looks beside Harry to George, who cheeses a smile, and she looks startled. Like her eyes had only seen an empty space where Harry’s omega stood until Harry gave her permission to look. It’s unnerving, but once she shutters the surprise on her face, she beams and leans in air-kiss George’s cheek, too. She’s an Alpha playing up her scent with amplifier perfume, all cotton candy sweet and peppermint frost, like a snow queen. The image is enhanced by her shock of white-blond hair and the pale blue of her eyes. 

“Yes, of course! George! I read about that online,” she says. She puts her hands on George’s shoulders. “Let me look at you. You’re adorable. Don’t look as much like Harry as I’d thought, actually.”

“Does that mean I’m not adorable?” Harry asks, petulant.

She snorts. “Not compared to this one.” Then she looks up over George’s shoulder and signals to someone across the room. “I’m being beckoned. Lovely to see you again, Harry, you should come by more often. Bring him.”

And then she’s gone.

“Who was that?” George asks, still a little taken aback. “I recognized the face, just not enough to know by name.”

“I can never remember her name,” Harry says. “Some sort of bird, I think? Or maybe a type of vegetable?”

George snorts. “Nice. I’ll bet you referred to me as ‘Satsuma’ for a few days, too.”

“No, I knew you were called George,” Harry says. “But I thought your surname was ‘Stylinson’ for a while. That’s all anyone called you online.”

George rubs one eye with the heel of his hand and lets Harry lead him deeper into the sumptuous House. It’s not as crowded as it might be, since it’s a Sunday and after the carvery hours have ended, but there are people on sofas and at tables, holding highball glasses of colored tonics and tall fluted glasses of champagne. Champagne! On a random Sunday! George recognizes plenty of faces, but others are clearly behind-the-scenes types—older, betas, balding the way they do. Managers, probably, or producers. Lawyers and agents. George doesn’t have any of those yet, unless you count Blair’s obsession with being kept abreast of Union J’s actions even though there’s no reason for it. 

Harry gives George a little running tour as they find their way to the fifth floor dining room. He rambles, adding unnecessary details as always, but George likes them. Apparently there are bedrooms for rent here. The idea of it seems scandalous—seems _London elite_. It’s presumptuous and it’s Alpha and it makes George blush and cling tighter to Harry’s hand. 

“How do they, erm,” he asks in a whisper, right in Harry’s ear, “I don’t, erm. It doesn’t smell like omegas in here? Like the Corinthia’s always complaining about because of me?”

Harry pauses and takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. But it proves it’s possible, doesn’t it, so the hotel where you are should stop blaming you and just get better housekeeping.”

“I can ask here before we go, so that I can clean your house after, you know,” George offers softly.

“I don’t mind it,” Harry says. “I like your smell, Satsuma Stylinson.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

Harry kisses George’s cheek again. “Okay.”

When their waiter comes over to the table Harry manages to snag, he addresses George as his own separate person—unlike the waitstaff at the Corinthia. George doesn’t even need to show his license to order a cider, and then Harry gets a whole bottle of champagne to celebrate Union J’s victory into Week Nine. 

“Are you going to drink that whole thing?” George asks, goggle-eyed.

“No, you’re going to help, if you like,” Harry says. “It’s your win.”

“I didn’t win, yet,” George says. “Am I allowed to drink that much here? My limit at the Corinthia is two serves. I think my license tops at three.”

“You’re okay.” Harry waves his hand. “If you want more, then you can have whatever you want. I’ll take care of you. ‘S’what I’m for.”

George has been drunk before—just once, with Parisa. He’s sneaked drinks illegally, too, like on the train to bootcamp with the rest of his friends. In Vegas, of course, he’d seen omegas drunk in public when they spilled out of that nightclub with the omegas On Cam crew, and he knows that the stigma about drunkenness extends to betas and Alphas, too. With a Bond, he’s in less danger than he used to be, too, save someone kidnapping him and keeping him away from Harry. But given the needy mess he’d become the one and only time he drank through an entire box of white wine (that’s all the label said—“White Wine”) on New Year’s Eve, and the singular image of George and Harry together that exists online, when George was on Harry in the throes of Heat, he doesn’t want to risk it. Makes his stomach hurt a little.

“I probably won’t have much,” George mutters. “But you can, if you like, obviously. I don’t mind.”

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t get the expensive one. We’ll save that for when you become the second group ever to win the X Factor.”

“Don’t jinx us!” George says, tapping Harry’s foot with his own under the table. “We’re not as pretty as Little Mix.”

“I think you’re prettier,” Harry declares broadly. 

For all that they’re out on a public date for the first time, none of George’s friends anywhere nearby to jump in as a bodyguard if necessary and in the company of strangers, it doesn’t feel much different than meeting up at the Corinthia. It isn’t as cozy as eating at Harry’s house, either, but people leave them alone, for the most part. A few famous faces stop by to say hello to Harry, and two touch George’s shoulder with propriety and congratulate him on Union J’s progress, they just _love_ the show this year, _such_ a shame about Ella leaving. George smiles, thanks them, agrees. But it’s… not earth-shattering.

“You alright?” Harry asks after a while, laying his fork on the side of his honey-roasted squash. “You’re sad. But I can’t tell why you’re sad, just like, that you are. Sorry.”

“I’m not sad,” George says, shaking his head. “I think it’s just the adrenaline leaving from the show.” He eats another bite of aubergine parmigiana. “Everything’s great. Really delicious, thank you.”

“Are you disappointed by something?” Harry presses. “Did you not want to perform next week? Are you like, sick of the X Factor or something? Are you sick of me, already?”

“No, I’m not sick of anything,” George says. “I guess this is just a bit more normal than I envisioned a big London night out to be, all those years. But it’s a hundred thousand miles better than Las Vegas turned out to be.” He smiles. “I promise.”

Harry frowns. “Well, what did you used to picture?”

“I don’t know, really,” George says. “Just feeling… special. I guess. Feeling stylish and important and laughing a lot. Running around Piccadilly to a Depeche Mode soundtrack or something.”

Harry laughs. “You come with your own soundtrack?”

“No,” George giggles back. Then he sighs. “But I guess growing up, I thought London did. I thought a lot of things that have turned out to be wrong, though, and all for the better. Tonight will be the same, I’m sure.”

Harry keeps frowning, his mouth pulling together in a little pucker. Then he stands, napkin dropped onto his plate. “Alright. That’s that, then. We’re going out and running around London like we come with a soundtrack of Depeche Mode.”

“But—” George looks down at his half-full plate, the mostly full bottle of champagne. “You spent all this, and—it’s £600 to come in at all, and—”

“I don’t care about that,” Harry says. “Let’s go. Run wild on the streets. Eat Doner kebabs and go to a club. It’ll be like an episode of Skins, except no one will die.”

It’s the tangle of hopefulness probing at George’s insides coming from Harry’s direction that makes George grin and stand, too, folding his napkin carefully before he sets it on his seat. He takes Harry’s hand. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They don’t actually run wild, because it’s cold and a Sunday in November, but George’s legs are pleasantly wobbly with cider and sparkling wine and Harry smells warm and wonderful beside him. They do get Doner kebabs on the street corner and sit on a bench, Harry’s arm around George’s shoulders, to eat them. A few curious glances shoot their way, but no one stops them for a photo or an autograph until they stop to warm up with cups of coffee. 

By the time they’ve finished and Harry shepherds George out of the Apostrōphe door, fans aren’t the only people waiting. A cloud of paparazzi swarms like gnats, flashes going off so brightly in George’s eyes that he stumbles on the curb.

Harry catches him, big hands steady around George’s biceps. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah,” George murmurs. “Just surprised is all. And blind.”

“Are you in Heat again, George?” asks one of the camera thugs. “How do you like taking Harry’s knot?”

“Ignore it,” Harry whispers. He keeps hold of George and they ease their way through the crowd. “Just ignore it.”

“Harry, he smells good,” taunts another. “You better keep an eye on that one or someone’ll take him away.”

“George! What’s it like to sleep your way to the top?”

“Harry, you could’ve had anyone, why this nobody? His arse that wet?”

“So when are you planning kids?”

“Were you paid by Simon Cowell, George?”

George knows that besides his own rage, Harry can feel the blue-black shame that’s eating away at George’s stomach. Nobody knows what they did last night, and George knows that, but they also _all_ know what they do together in the dark, in general. Everyone knows that he takes Harry’s knot, and maybe that’s not an evil thing or a dark thing, but it’s the only bit of him they see when they look at him. Not his singing or his guitar, not even his face. Just his body, his bum, the way he gets fucked by Harry. He isn’t even a person, he’s just… holes. Holes that belong to Harry.

“Hey,” Harry says firmly, his lips pressed to George’s ear. “None of that. You’re amazing, and they’re all shit. If they weren’t scum, they wouldn’t have to be paps. They make their living on trying to get you to look upset and use your picture. They’re just hangers-on. You’re worth a lot more.”

George takes a deep breath and lets the low-burning log scent of Harry, like marshmallows roasting over a campfire and caramel pecan pie, flood over the mossy beta smell of the sweaty paparazzi and the sharp stench of their stale cigarette smoke. The cameras are still flashing, all jostling for the best angle on Harry’s mouth pressed to the side of George’s face, but George just squeezes Harry’s hand and they push their way through until Harry can flag down a cab.

Once they’re inside, Harry moves to let go of George’s hand, but George tightens their grip.

“Sorry about that,” Harry whispers. “I didn’t think they’d bother you like that.”

“It’s okay,” George says. “I did. It was unnerving but I’m not going to cry or anything. I’ve heard worse.”

Harry’s face looks stormy all the way to the club. There’s a line outside, but Harry urges the cabbie all the way to the front and slides out first, ahead of George, before paying and taking George’s hand. They get to bypass the line entirely, but in addition to the blacklight stamps on the backs of their hands, George and Harry are both given orange wristbands. The stack behind the booth shows pairs of bands in dozens of colors and patterns wound on spools. Like homing beacons. Or dog tags. George wonders if they’ll beep if he gets too far away from Harry, like Tamagotchis.

Harry looks down at their bracelets, though, and smiles. “I like orange. It’s a color that fits you.”

George shakes his head, but once they’re out of the cramped entryway—“Wow, this is more like the London Parisa and I used to picture.”

Bright lights, throbbing music, wall-to-wall people in chic clothes, Alphas and omegas and betas all dancing, flirting. Everyone is young, unlike at the Shoreditch House, and everyone is _cool_. They’re probably less important, maybe, than their dinner companions had been, but they’re having fun and that’s all George has wanted.

Harry beams. “D’you want to dance? D’you want a drink? Both? Neither? Just stand about and watch everyone?”

George is soaking up everything to remember to tell Parisa later. He has to yell right into Harry’s ear just to be heard. “All of it? I just want to have fun—like, I want to experience it all.”

“Okay.” Harry’s hand slides across the small of George’s back and he guides him towards the bar. “I have to apologize in advance to your toes. I’ll squish them.”

“That’s okay.” George nestles a little closer into Harry’s side. “I’ll probably squish yours back.”

Harry gets two drinks that make George’s tongue flame with tequila, and for a while, they just stand by the bar and work their way through them, trading increasingly sloppy puns back and forth. Harry’s hand stays splayed on George’s back, but makes its way under the soft knit of his jumper and then the cotton of his t-shirt where it’s already beginning to stick to his back from the heat of the room and the influence of the liquor. Harry buys a second round of drinks before George has to blink away the flash of a Polaroid camera as his face is stuck on the _DRINK LIMIT_ wall, but whatever Harry bought, it’s big enough that they can share and it’s strong enough that George feels like half is probably the best idea anyway.

The driving bass of a Tinie Tempah song shakes the floor and George’s eyes light up. He starts rapping along under his breath, bobbing his head and shuffling his feet.

Harry’s breath smells like rum when he leans in to yell in George’s ear, “Wanna dance?”

George’s face is pink and flushed. Blue lights cast a shadow across Harry’s face that makes his eyelashes look long as peacock tails. “I don’t really know how. We just jump off boxes!”

“That’s okay!” Harry says. “You just like…” he swivels his hips a little and then laughs. “I dunno, either!”

He grasps George’s hand and pulls him out into the fray, and people part like the red sea for Harry to pass. There’s a lot of muttering _is that?_ and _I think he is, yeah_ and _my little sister loves him_. George catches a few _oh, yeah, I saw them on Perez Hilton, yeah, they’re together_ comments, but no one says anything truly nasty. He’s glad, and he’s tipsy, and the lights spinning around them in a gradient of colors make him feel like he’s a character in a film. They park next to a speaker and the beat is so prevalent that it crawls up into George’s ribs, making his heart trip-stammer to match up, every breath part of the song. 

Harry’s hand spans around George’s hip easy when he turns George around so they’re face-to-face. Their feet alternate in a line, Harry-George-Harry-George, so unless they attempt a foxtrot, they aren’t actually liable to step on the other’s toes. 

“This alright?”

“Yeah,” George answers, and is promptly elbowed in the back by a passing stranger, knocking him close enough to Harry that they’re pressed together chest-to-chest and thigh-to-thigh. “’S’this alright?”

Harry rests his hands on the slope of George’s lower back, holding him close by the hips just at the waistband of his jeans. The tips of his fingers rest over the small curve of George’s bum. Alcohol’s brought his scent up stronger, almond and fire almost crackling through the air on the undercurrent of molasses. He doesn’t speak, the music too loud to bother, and just nods, inching George closer still.

Breathing tightened by the pulse of the bass, George giggles wildly. “I don’t know how to dance like this!”

Harry’s lips trail George’s temple, skin soft and voice loud. “Just move with me.”

George swallows. He knows how to do that, after last night. 

They don’t quite fit the music, both of them off-rhythm and clumsy on their best days, but they fit each other. Harry dips his head an inch and George looks up to find Harry’s eyes, the intensity of them confirming the pull and simmer in his belly that Harry’s thinking of it, too, the rosy-pink warmth of the dream they’d bounced back and forth until it was shared last night and the smell of oranges left behind on the sheets in the morning. After someone accidentally-on-purpose jostles past and their sweaty beta crotch rubs over George’s bum, Harry growls under his breath, low in his chest, and George whispers, _don’t worry about it_. Harry can’t hear, but he can see the movement of George’s lips: he’s been staring at them. 

Harry slides his hand down to cover the offended area, and George giggles again, his hands clenching into Harry’s collar. His cheekbones are aflame as he hides his face in the curve of Harry’s neck.

Lips brush the top of his head. Soft. Harry moves his hand back to George’s waist, an apology. Too much, too public, too soon.

The beat reverberates through all of the places they touch, the song flipping over into something low and slow and dirty. George looks up and his nose brushes against Harry’s nose. Then his lips, Harry’s lips.

For a minute, they only share breath, dizzy, boozy, and sweet. 

And then their lips touch, and it doesn’t matter how many people see. It’s gentle and it’s quiet. Equal. One of George’s hands stays twisted into Harry’s shirt collar, holding on for security, but the other finds its way to being cupped over the sharp angle of Harry’s jaw, soft skin and the pale prickles of almost-hair pressing into the pads of his fingertips.

All of George’s insides are shaken inside-out by the low-slinging beat and the shake of the floor and the steady syncopation of Harry’s heartbeat all around him. When Harry slips his tongue into the kiss, George whimpers. It can’t be heard, but Harry feels the vibration of it and his fingers tighten around George’s waist, a tiny flutter like he can coax more sounds from George just like this.

Every feeling Harry is projecting into George feels like he’s swallowing it down from the lips, spreading inside him through his veins like energy. They’re all red and gold and the pink of secret places. Harry _wants_ , and George can feel him fattening up against George’s thigh.

George has to pull away to breathe and the air isn’t nearly cold enough, too saturated with Harry’s scent and the mingled scents of a hundred strangers. His head is spinning.

“Hiya! I thought that was you, Harry!”

George jumps, and does, like he’d predicted, land right on Harry’s toes, making him yelp and laugh and step away, then pull George right back so that his erection’s hidden behind George’s hipbone.

“Grimmy—hi,” Harry sounds a little breathless and surprised, and it probably isn’t just from the kiss. George feels carefully blank, so that Harry won’t have anyone else’s emotions to deal with. “What are you doing here?”

Nick Grimshaw scrubs a hand through his quiff and even though George hasn’t met him before and can’t know what he’s feeling, he looks so awkward and uncomfortable that wherever Louis Tomlinson is, he’ll know it, too. “Just having a night out. Getting a drink. What about you two? I don’t think we’ve met, George—” He sticks out his hand. “I’ve been voting for you.”

“Thanks,” George yells over the music. He shakes Nick’s hand. Besides Josh, he’s the only other famous omega George knows. “I’ll tell the rest of the boys. We appreciate it.”

“Just take out Christopher Baloney next weekend, will you?” Nick asks. “He’s bloody awful, isn’t he?”

George shuffles his feet awkwardly. “Yeah, he’s sorta shit. Good voice, though.”

“Yeah, good voice.” They all fall silent and let the music pulse around them. Whatever the drink in Nick’s hand, it’s violently green. 

George wants to turn and tell Harry that it’s alright, he knows they’re still friends. They’ve had photos taken of them together since Harry and George have Bonded, and he knows that Harry’s talked about him with Nick before—asked for advice. They don’t have to pretend otherwise just because he’s standing here. But there’s no way to say that in front of the man without him knowing, and it’s a circle of all wanting to say something to one of the others about one of the others without the third other seeing and George is entirely too tipsy for this and he feels a little empty, like something was about to happen between Harry and himself and it’s been snatched away.

“How’s your house?” Nick asks finally, leaning in to be heard over a dubstep break. “Dick the Ghost still bothering you?”

“He’s alright,” Harry says back. “He doesn’t bother me when George is home.”

Home. Not ‘over.’ George looks at Harry just beyond his shoulder and gives him a small smile.

“Good, that’s good.” Nick nods. He tosses back some more of the green drink. His wristband is bright pink.

Louis is here somewhere, then. George knows the moment Harry recognizes that, too, because it drops into both of their stomachs like lead. George reaches behind him and finds Harry’s hand to lace their fingers together. He squeezes twice, a signal.

“Hey,” Harry says, looking down at George, “You wanna go home, speaking of? You’ve had quite a day. Singing Coldplay and all that. I’ve been there. I can’t believe they reused our song.”

“It’s not your song,” Nick and George say in one voice. “It’s Chris Martin’s song.”

Harry looks disgruntled. “Same thing.”

“Are they being snide about how the X Factor squandered _our_ song?” Louis Tomlinson asks, appearing at Nick’s elbow. He’s carrying his own tall, thin Long Island Iced Tea between a few fingers, pinkie held aloft like he’s at a fancy dress tea party. “Alright, Harry? Haven’t seen you in what, eighteen hours? That’s like a lifetime, for the two of us.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, they’re just bursting to lie and say this year’s contestants sang ‘Viva la Vida’ better than we did.”

“Never,” Louis swears. He takes a long sip through his straw as he sizes George up, blue eyes sweeping from George’s tangle of hair, just barely matted to his forehead with sweat, down over the borrowed blazer too wide in the shoulders and over George’s coltish legs to the shoes too high and narrow to be comfortable. George squirms a little under the scrutiny. “Congrats on getting through,” Louis decides. “Will you take out fucking Baloney for me next week, please? Bloody awful. Who’s gonna buy his album? No one.”

George ducks his head and giggles. “Yeah, I’ll try. His nan’ll buy his album.”

“Oh, fuck his nan.” Louis takes another sip. “He’s dull. Like Steve Brookstein, another over-the-hill Alpha no one wanted.”

“Now, now, dear,” Nick says, patting Louis’ elbow. “Not all of us can be twenty.”

Louis rolls his eyes. Harry’s still said scarcely a word, keeping close behind George and just… watching them. Both people who had chosen each other, despite being contentious near-strangers, rather than Bond to him, or—in Louis’ case—living in what George still thinks, despite his best efforts to avoid it, would be sin. George can tell that they’re trying to be discreet in how they’re examining him, and he wonders what Harry’s told them about him. If he’s said anything since back when he was desperately afraid of Harry and didn’t want to be around him. If he’s mentioned that George is moving into his house, now, or whether the jabs at ‘home’ were meant to startle and pierce.

That isn’t a Harry that George knows yet, if they were. The Harry that George knows is always gentle, even when it wouldn’t serve him best.

Louis and Nick are both fools if they didn’t see that. But they do seem to suit each other, all sharp angles and jutted chins and certainty. They’re both powerful. Clearly stubborn. They might not do well with Harry’s softness; it would get bruised and tarnished. George likes it, though. It’s easy to learn to fit himself around without being bruised himself.

“Hey, break a leg at MSG next week,” George yells to Louis. “I’m really jealous. I’ll definitely whack Maloney one in the kneecaps if you think it’d help us get to where you are someday.”

Flattery works with Louis Tomlinson, George can tell. He draws himself up another inch taller, grinning with crinkled eyes, and Harry laughs quietly behind George. A job well done.

“I like him,” Louis declares to the room at large, and then repeats it to Nick and to Harry each in turn. “I like him, he’s a good one. You got a good one, Harry.”

The quiet space where Harry’s emotions live glows a placid oceanic blue, satisfied and calm. Whole. “I know.”

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	14. Chapter Fourteen

  
_Don't let me_  
 _Don't let me go_  
' _Cause I'm tired of feeling alone_  
\-- "Don't Let Me Go," H. Styles (A) 

* * *

_I’m nervous._

George turns his mobile over in his hands. His knees won’t stop jittering, either; Jaymi stormed out of their room ten minutes ago shouting that George’s shaking was driving him mad and he couldn’t be around him anymore. 

The ninth live Saturday of the X Factor is tomorrow. They’ve finished their dress rehearsals, and they’re good: not that it matters. Probably. 

But Harry has been here before, George thinks; he’s gone out onstage knowing there are only three people left to beat to win. And Harry hadn’t, either, so he might understand what to say more than George can understand what to think. With Rylan gone, nothing about being here is fun anymore. Everyone is tense and no one really feels like a friend tonight, with JJ and Josh taking solace in each other and Jaymi annoyed at George. Harry is halfway across the globe and the pit of George’s stomach feels stretched tight, like a rubber band being pulled to its whitest limit before it either shoots away or rebounds with a snap. 

His mobile buzzes. Harry’s sent back the emojis for an array of flowers, a bunch of grapes, and a fortune teller’s crystal ball. 

“Helpful,” George mutters, and tosses his iPhone across the covers. 

Logically, George knows that they’ve done all they can, and if they’re voted out, then it’s just the whim of the public. Photographs of his date night with Harry had run in the Sun, the Mail, the Guardian—the _Guardian_ \--and a variety of American gossip sites that had never bothered with Union J before now. Before George could become more famous for who he’s doing than for _what_ he’s doing with his life. They’ll probably come out in next week’s Apple mag in a spread of “Alphas and omegas who look alike” or “One Direction’s Harry finds love;” something that cuts George out almost entirely.

And yet that hasn’t been the only result of being linked to Harry. _Fabulous_ rang him up on Monday afternoon and invited him to do an interview, in-depth, just him, with a photoshoot to accompany. He could wear whatever he wanted, not just some gauzy thing that clung to his torso with jeans that showed off his bum, either. It wouldn’t run until Sunday, too late to help Union J garner votes, but even if they were out, then George wouldn’t be completely gone. He would get to say his piece, and maybe people wouldn’t forget Union J.

As far as interview experiences went, it was a nice one. They ordered a pizza, and the journalist was a soft-spoken beta. George felt almost comfortable answering most of their questions, and only about half were on the subject of his life with Harry. Instead, he got to talk about his family, what it was like to grow up as the only omega in such a big brood of betas, and his audition experience for the show. He says that he met Josh and JJ at boot camp, even though that’s fudging the truth.

He _should_ have met them then, anyway. If he’d been a little braver, then maybe he would have, but he’d been too intimidated by their Bond at the time.

After the interview, he’d had photos taken for hours. That was much duller, but the assistants were nice and there was coffee, even though he had to drink it through a straw to avoid discoloring his teeth. The racks of clothing probably cost, all together, more than his mother’s mortgage. George didn’t want to look like Harry, so he’d called up the most recent One Direction shoot for Fabulous on his iphone and chosen the opposite: Harry had worn a low-cut white tee and a smart blazer; George chose a big, comfy jumper. Harry posed lounging on the floor, hips canted towards the camera to beguile; George grinned and jumped in the air. 

After he’d changed back into his street clothes, George got to look at the proofs on screen and watch the preliminary edits. He made a few comments about shots that he particularly didn’t like, and got to chatting with the designers after explaining he nearly was one.

“You have a good eye,” one commented after George pointed out a bit of blur. “I’m surprised, without a degree. Or did you get one?”

“They didn’t have room,” George muttered. Then he smiles at the apologetic look and waves his hand. “It’s alright. X-Factor is better.”

“I just keep forgetting you’re an omega,” said the assistant. “We almost never feature—like, I think the last was, pff… Grimmy? D’you know him, by chance?”

“Er, yeah, kinda,” George hedged. “But it’s not like… we don’t all know each other.”

“No, obviously!” They’d laughed, turning back to the monitor. “I just figured, you know. Since everyone thought he was Harry’s. Until that photo leaked of you.”

“Right.” George’s stomach had done something a little odd, pinched and twisted and felt sour. Maybe just too much coffee. “Well, for the record, that’s—he was never Harry’s, and that’s not how I know him. He’s famous on his own, isn’t he? Everyone knows him. I think that’s sick. He’s made it on his own.”

He hadn’t realized then that he’d opened himself up to another quote when they asked, carefully, “Do you wish you had?” And George said, honestly: “No. Harry’s done everything I’m doing, so he’s good for support and things. I’m glad I have him.”

Now probably everything that happened will be in the papers tomorrow, and George will be asked about all of that on top of having to talk about being voted out. Not that they’ve even performed yet, but he’s wound so tightly that he’s sure about it. Strings of emojis aside, George feels rather abandoned.

His mobile buzzes again, this time with a photo. On the foot of a crumpled sheet, a basket of tangerines and a picked-bare bunch of grapes sits just above the caption, _I’m nervous too. Got lonely… .x_

Before George can answer, a second photo pings through of a tangerine with a face framed in curls and a wide smile drawn on in marker. _Really lonely._

George shakes his head, looking down at his lap, and snorts. Then he calls down to room service for a few bananas. 

They trade Snapchats for a while—George draws different emoji faces on his bananas and they trade puns; eventually, George sends _I find you a-PEEL-ing_ and Harry can only send back the discarded white membrane and orange skin of his tangerine with _it’s a PITH-y you aren’t here._ While George is trying to draw a suspicious moon face on a banana skin, Harry writes back, _Sorry, got hungry. You know how I like satsumas… .x_

George goes pink and drops the banana. Even without an aubergine emoji, he can tell that Harry’s meant it as an innuendo. They haven’t done anything _else_ , but after their date night out at the club, George had gone back to Harry’s for the second time and they spent the night in the blue bed that already smelled of them, and Harry had done it again. George kept his t-shirt on that time and covered his face with his hands, but it still felt like a revelation. And again, Harry didn’t ask for anything in return. Not from George. 

Instead Harry had muttered, _I have to—d’you mind if I? Like?_

George shook his head, and Harry wrapped a hand around himself and George tried to look away, keep his eyes on his own knees or Harry’s face, but in the pale light coming through the open bedroom door, he’d looked somewhere in between instead. 

“It’s okay to look,” Harry promised. George tucked himself up under the sheets to hide, but he couldn’t have stopped looking anyway. He tried to pretend to himself that he was only interested in getting another look at all of the tattoos, since there were always new ones, it seemed, every time Harry took his clothes off. And George did like Harry’s tattoos, even though he didn’t understand them all. He liked the robins best of all.

But he couldn’t stop looking at Harry’s hands. He had long, pretty fingers and a tattoo looping one wrist that pledged _I can’t change…_

It seemed horribly rough the way Harry tugged at himself, nothing like the way he touched George, and he almost wanted to tell Harry to stop, he didn’t have to hurt himself. It was clear from his face, though, that he wasn’t. 

Without knotting, it seemed like a laughably tiny amount of come. Just a stripe of white on Harry’s stomach. He wiped it all away with one tissue before laughing sheepishly and falling down with a great _flump_ onto the mattress beside George.

He kissed George’s shoulder through the t-shirt. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” George had murmured, the type of sleepy borne of orgasms and alcohol. “Are you alright?”

Harry glowed with warmth when he threw back the sheets and cuddled right up to George, long arms around George’s thin waist and chin tucked over his shoulder so curls tickled the side of George’s neck. “I’m more than alright, love.”

Nearly a week had passed since then. Quietly, in the shower on Wednesday, George tried mimicking Harry. The roughness edged too closely to Heat and made him panic instead, curled up in the corner of the tub to breathe deeply for a long stretch of minutes until the water began to cool. omegas and Alphas were built differently, he thought, washing up afterwards and soaping his hands twice. 

_Sorry_ , George’s mobile buzzes back. _I know that makes you uncomfortable._ Harry’s attached an octopus emoji as an apology. Maybe it’s meant to symbolize the way he hugs, all limbs a-tangle.

George smiles down at his phone. _It’s OK. I’m going to watch Big Bang Theory and sleep. Nu-night._

His dreams are muddled that night, a strange conglomeration of memories from school and exhilarations from the show and worries about the future: he’s onstage, ready to jump off his box, when the Sisters come and grab him under the elbows to drag him away; the stage gels alight to show off a confessional; George is announced onstage with Harry and when he arrives, the rest of the band is a Von Trapp-like collection of children with curly hair and sniffly, runny noses and whiny crying.

He wakes up around sunrise in a jolt. Washed-out gray winter light floods the room while George lies on his back and breathes, willing his nerves to steel themselves. He can perform today. He can do what he came to London for, and dreams are only dreams. His old schoolmarms even hung a big VOTE FOR UNION J banner across the front of the school, according to Leo, so they wouldn’t keep him from performing. There is no brood of Von Styleses. And he hasn’t sinned, doesn’t want to confess, and has nothing to feel guilty about. 

He’s still staring at the ceiling when his mobile buzzes out of the blue, startling him into a racing heartbeat again. When he blinks against its bright light, Harry’s only asking, _what’s wrong?_

George closes his eyes and exhales. _Nothing. Bad dreams._

 _Before our Week 9, I dreamt I got eaten by a giant dachshund with Simon’s face_ , Harry offers.

 _That helps_ , George writes back, snorting. _Wasn’t like that. But thanks._

He turns off his mobile, all the same. The X-Factor is for him, not for Harry; he came to London for himself and his band and he’s going to get up and shower off this cold sweat and eat breakfast and go pry JJ off Josh so they can rehearse even while waiting for Jaymi. Their songs this week are so slow and pleading, they come across as desperate even in the staging.

George would be ashamed, but they _are_ desperate. They deserve a spot in the final more than Christopher does. If there is anything that George can do, Union J will not end the weekend without a pass into the live final at Wembley.

Only Jaymi is waiting at the table when George arrives for breakfast.

“Sorry about last night,” he says, and he gives George a collegiate almost-smile. “We’re all a bit tense, I think.” He lowers his voice. “Some more than others.”

George’s stomach sinks. “Is – Josh is in Heat? Today?”

“Yeah, I mean, JJ’s taking care of it now, so he should be alright.” Jaymi spoons some cereal into his mouth. “But maybe be nice to them anyway. Josh’ll be fragile, and all.”

“No, he won’t.” George frowns. “Not if he’s all – not if they’ve already… you know, by the time the show starts. He’ll be fine.”

Jaymi doesn’t quite look convinced. “Well, all the same, might be worth considering seeing if you can sing Josh’s verse.”

Josh has rehearsed for this harder than any of them. Every time George turns up at JoshAndJJ’s room for a chat, Josh is singing. Every day that they’re in the van, Josh leads off the accappella practice. When George sat down next to Josh at dinner the night before and Josh asked him to move because the kale smelled terrible on George’s plate, he still kept humming.

“I’m not going to do that to him,” George tells Jaymi. “Josh can do it. He’ll do whatever it takes to do it well, too.”

Jaymi looks at George askance over the top of his coffee. “If you say so.” 

He gets up to go ring Olly, and George wishes Ella were still here. She was fun to eat breakfast with: no pressure to say the right thing, to do the right there. There wasn’t even anything ‘right’ to do with Ella. She was just a friend. Only a friend, and maybe the only person George has ever really had that with. Parisa wanted him to wait out his Heat and become hers. Josh and George have to stick together or go mad. JJ is George’s bandmate, someone he can’t let down; Jaymi looks at George like he might be another species, but one that he thinks he might want as a pet. Caroline is… Caroline didn’t know whether to treat George like a child or an adult. And then there’s Harry.

George always wants to impress Harry. He doesn’t think he _has_ to impress Harry anymore, but he still wants to, all the time. But as nice as Harry is to be around, Harry isn’t his friend, and he never was, and that makes it – it’s different. George may never have had another pure friend like Ella, but he’s also never had anyone like Harry in his life.

Harry makes George feel all of the things that Harry’s scent carries on his skin: comfort at night, warmth in the cold, a place of belonging like a cat napping in a spot of sun, but some essence of impending fear, too, like there’s a scarecrow in the field just around the corner that will make George jump if he doesn’t catch right away that the frightening part just isn’t real. Harry isn’t scary, but the way he feels when George gets glimpses of him hot pink in the pit of his stomach is. There is no real way to know how you’re supposed to act when someone feels that way about you.

George takes another spoonful of cereal. He pulls out his mobile. _I’m less nervous now._

He slides his mobile into his pocket and finishes off the bowl. He doesn’t need coaching to perform. This week’s show is ingrained in his skin itself. He knows it inside and out. Josh’s Heat or not, George believes in Union J. JJ will do everything he can to help Josh, just like Harry has done for George. Things will be alright.

After that, the day feels like any other Saturday: it’s a whirlwind of vocal exercises and loosening his muscles, getting his hair washed so well it makes George feel a bit boneless. Styling it with curlers and heat and spray until it might as well be a helmet. Last-minute wardrobe fittings. George will never quite get used to Grace down between his legs chatting with pins between her lips as she tightens his trousers, but this may well be the last time he needs to bother. 

It won’t, George reminds himself. A flood of pride swells in his belly, and George knows that Harry can feel how confident he is today. The show will go well.

Josh is pale when he arrives, and JJ has dark circles under his eyes. He looks edgy and protective, teeth shining on edge and arms ropy with muscle around Josh. 

He’ll make a good father, probably, when he and Josh decide to have babies. George pats them both on the shoulder as he lets them take his place in wardrobe. He gathers up his own clothing on his way out because last time he left it in the cubbies, Christopher somehow stepped on his favorite shirt and stained it with mud.

His trousers vibrate as George carries the bundle close to his chest. He fuddles through the pockets and finds his mobile and a photo message from Harry. 

His heart hurts: it’s Harry from behind, standing on the massive stage of Madison Square Garden, the theatre dark in front of him but the stage lights so bright, his arms spread like he’s the King of the World, and isn’t he, really? Today? Harry _is_ the king of the world.

 _Wow_ , George writes. It’s all he can say.

Harry thumbs back right away. _It’s good, isn’t it? It’ll do._

There isn’t a name for the bright blue-green silver-flared feelings that roll in curls through George’s belly as Harry looks out at that stage, a million miles away. All George knows is that he wants to feel it, too, his _own_ , _his_ feelings. He wants it to be his stage. And it can be, if he can hold onto this help—this boost from Harry—to carry him through the show. George has never felt like he were the king of the world, but he doesn’t feel like he’s just a courtesan or a white-veiled queen, either. He is the heir in the throne room, and Harry is offering him the crown jewels.

He takes them. When Union J’s lights come up and George is bathed in spotlight, he inhales stage dust and confidence. When Josh’s opening notes are clear and strong and prove everyone, even fucking Jaymi standing between them, wrong, George’s muscles sigh blue peace. George’s fingers on his guitar strings verve with hunger, with all of the silver and yellow edges of Harry’s roaring satisfaction burning in George’s belly turned to red hot pink craving. He wants every morsel of glitter-grit the world will give him, and he gives himself back in full.

“I tell you what… something felt a little bit different about you guys tonight,” Tulisa says afterwards, and she’s staring at George. “It was almost like this maturity. You had more power than you do usually, and I thought your performance was really good.”

It’s too early to get his hopes up. But all the same, George blossoms with a flutter of pale orange, and hopes.

That night, after the Xtra Factor, Parisa turns up at the hotel bar and hugs George so tightly he squeaks. 

“He’s good for you,” she whispers in his ear. “I can tell.”

George pushes his face into the side of her neck. She smells like home—his old home. Not the one he wants to live in anymore. He nods, hugging her back, and then doesn’t even blush as they sit by Caroline and Olly for a drink. Or two.

Afterwards, as they’re headed upstairs in the lift, George pretends not to notice Parisa’s nose twitching. The smell of George’s Heat still hasn’t been completely obliterated by the cleaning crew’s astringent scrubbing. He reaches across the gap between them and squeezes her hand.

“How long are you staying?”

“Only until tomorrow after the show,” Parisa says, and there’s a hanging silence. George refuses to hear _when I collect you and bring you back to Clevedon_ in the air.

“Alright,” George says. “Did I show you the posters of me up in Costa last time you were here?”

Parisa smiles at him. “No, you didn’t.”

“We can get breakfast there,” George says. “Is it alright that I’m knackered? I just want to… laptop and sleep.”

Parisa nods and pats George’s arm. “Of course. I just—I know Harry is in America and I didn’t think you should face this Sunday alone.”

George smiles. “Thanks. I’m not, though. Like, he’s… we’ve a connection. That sounds cheesy, but it’s like, did you ever learn that Bonded pairs can feel each other’s feelings? That’s what we have.”

The lift doors open and they walk down the corridor swinging their hands between them like children. It’s nice, and it’s comfortable, and George does love her. But he isn’t hers, and never really was.

“You don’t mind that?” Parisa asks curiously. George flicks the lamp on by his bed, but leaves the room dim. It’s only Parisa, and she’s seen him at his worst and his best. She follows him right to the door of the bathroom and keeps talking as he starts to wash the shellac of makeup from his face. “I think I’d hate having someone inside my head like that all the time.”

“It’s not my head he’s in,” George mumbles around a flannel.

Parisa snorts.

George gives her a distinctly unimpressed look over the wet terrycloth and gets soap in his eye for the trouble. “Not like that.” He rinses out his eye. “I mean, I can’t tell _what’s_ making him feel a way, and the same for him with me. I just know he’s feeling it. It’s not mind-reading, it’s just…” George wrings out the ruined flannel and hangs it on the door. Without the bronzer, he looks pale as milk. “It’s like empathy, I guess.”

“Empathy?” Parisa sounds impressed and follows him out to the bedroom. George doesn’t turn away as he strips off his sweaty shirt and finds pyjamas. “For Harry? Look at you. You’ve changed since I saw you last.”

George’s head pops out of the shirt’s neckline. “I guess I have, yeah.” He tugs on the back where the tag scratches at his skin. “Is it bad?”

“I’ll get used to it,” Parisa says softly. When George meets her eyes, she smiles with sad lips. “It isn’t bad. I promise. It’s just a different sort of you than the one I knew.”

“But that would happen anyway.” George shimmies into his pyjama bottoms. “Coming here and being in London and just—just growing up. It would have changed me anyway.” He pauses. “I think I like it. I think maybe I hated Clevedon so much because it kept me the same. I don’t have to be the same old George here.”

“Or with Harry.”

“Or with Harry,” George agrees. “I mean, he didn’t know the old George, did he? So I can just like, be London-George with him.”

“Don’t you think he should, though?” Parisa strips out of her dress and takes a big old t-shirt out of her overnight bag. She doesn’t leave when she changes in front of George, either: he’s seen her as much as she’s seen him, and besides, he’s already someone’s. “He should get to meet the real—the old you. Clevedon-you. Your family’s you. My you was pretty lovable, you know.”

George smiles. “Thanks. I didn’t really feel it.”

Parisa knots her hair with a tie at the top of her head like a pompom. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t you,” George says honestly. “I mean, I know—I know you thought we’d end up together. And I thought it, too, but I didn’t realize you thought that was the happy ending.”

Parisa closes the gap between them with a tight hug, her face tucked into the side of George’s neck, and she clings on silently until George presses his own face to her shoulder. She smells like the faintest memory of cocoa and nothingness. “It’s okay. I’m glad your ending is better.”

* * *

The flash vote is the second-longest span of mere seconds in George’s life. The first was the first bolt of Bonding, the moment that, for the first time, his Heat began to subside properly.

As George jumps right onto Josh, screaming as Christopher drops his face in his hands and starts to sob across the stage, it seems fitting that both should feel like they involve Harry. Without his being onstage at Madison Square Garden last night, George would have performed differently. Maybe no worse. Maybe imperceptibly. But he can feel it in his gut with the same searing bright orange of his own joy transmitting itself across oceans and bloodstreams to tell Harry that Union J is through to the X Factor final.

If nothing else, they can end the competition in the same place as One Direction. A band of five Alphas who have taken over the world because that’s what Alphas do. _The Earth grew green and from the green God forged life, Alpha Man from leaves and sap, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and He was made in God’s own image._

But Union J has a George in it, has a Josh. omegas were not made of the Earth itself and couldn’t hold claim to it, couldn’t take it back like a band of Alphas regaining their own bounty.

Maybe they will anyway. Maybe George can do that.

JJ wraps his wiry arms around both George and Josh and sticks his bright white grin right in between their faces and murmurs _we made it, we made it, we made it, boys!_

George loops out one arm and gropes through the air until he finds Jaymi’s shoulder. He pulls Jaymi in, too, the treacly burning of soft vanilla wafting from Jaymi’s skin. All four of them stand tied together through the rest of the show’s closing. 

After the Xtra Factor, George hugs Josh and JJ and Jaymi again. He hugs Jahmene, slaps hands with James. He hugs Olly Murs. Caroline, too. She still smells of palm sugar and lavender soap, but George can still sense that dark undercurrent of fading lime under her bones, the scent of a Bond that broke wrong, her omega who died. 

“I’m glad I have Harry,” George whispers in her ear. “I just wish you’d told me.”

Caroline tightens her arms around George’s ribs. It’s so easy to see why Harry had loved her, even though George never likes to think of it. It’s easy to understand how much she thought she was doing the right thing for Harry. For the omega whose scent still haunts the air around her. Maybe, even, for George. Three months ago, the George who George used to be might have even agreed, late at night when he felt the smallest. She did what Alphas do, too. 

But George can do what an Alpha does. They both know that now.

Forgiveness is not a sweet scent. It is bitter and hard, an acquired taste. It’s one George isn’t sure he really needs. Trust, too, is an acquired taste, and when improperly served it can be lethal: only a thin sliver of the species is sustaining. To trust Caroline again would be suicide—

It doesn’t mean that Harry is the same. Harry is that sliver, the thin shaving of delicacy in a poisoned world of Alphas. 

Christopher proves a good example of that world when his name is called as the all-or-nothing loser; he won’t be going on to the final on Saturday. Fourth isn’t a bad place to get; Cher Lloyd’s doing well in America, and she only got fourth. But she seems like a different sort of Alpha than Christopher, George thinks—trying not to be smug—as Christopher’s false persona of tears and modesty explodes on national television and he has to be dragged off the stage before he can pop a fist at Josh and George.

He leaves the whole studio, too. There’s no having to deal with him in the green room during Xtra Factor, where George keeps pinching his own thigh just in case this is a dream. He hasn’t woken up yet, if it is.

Jaymi’s already rung Olly, and JJ is fawning over Josh on the squishy sofas. He plies Josh with tea and about six types of snacks and keeps kissing his forehead right under the quiff’s horn, leaving a glossy kiss-print. It’s cute, George thinks. But he doesn’t want to ring Harry yet. Not here, not right before joining Caroline and the other Olly on set. Not when he keeps getting lifted up in squeak-inducing hugs by Jahmene, another good Alpha.

Once the show has wrapped for another week—the last week—and the contestants have all converged on the hotel bar, George sneaks off to the corridor where, only a few weeks ago, Harry had found him and helped him. George ducks his head, covering the ear that isn’t pressed to his mobile. He has no idea what time it is in America. He can just leave a message if Harry is gone.

“’Lo?” Not gone. His mouth sounds full, though, and Harry swallows in George’s ear. “George?”

“We’re through,” George says. A great gust of laughter wells up in his belly and he can’t keep it down, giggling through the phone until his cheeks hurt. “We’re—we’ve at least tied you now.”

Harry forgets to turn his mouth away from the phone before he yells, “George and his band are through to the final!” A modest cheer goes up behind him, which George suspects is the rest of One Direction and their crew eating dinner. 

“I just—I had to ring and say thank you,” George says softly. “I had forgotten what all this was really for. But I felt you. Like, I felt what you felt when you practiced onstage for your show? And that’s so—it’s so big, bigger than Wembley, even, and I just, you were so… good. At being a popstar. Knowing what that felt like, I could—I pretended to be one, too.”

“You are a popstar,” Harry says. “You don’t have to thank me ‘cause you’re good. You’ve been good. You made it to X Factor without me, remember.”

“But I made it through with you,” George says. His voice is final, firm as it presses between his teeth. This is the truth, and it’s been a long time in settling. He needs to say it, and Harry needs to hear. “I got here alone, in like… I don’t want to say that I was always alone, because my family’s great and huge and I love them, and Parisa was—she’s still wonderful. It’s really important to me that I got here alone, too. But it’s also important to me that you know that I know that I got the rest of the way here with you. You didn’t have to help me with any of it, ever, but you did. Thank you.”

Harry swallows again. It doesn’t sound like it was dinner, this time. “You’re welcome.”

“I miss you,” George tries quietly. “I wish I could see your show for real.”

“Me, too,” Harry agrees. “Someday.”

“Next week,” George points out. “We’re probably singing together. Our mentor’s Louis Walsh; he can’t sing with us like Nicole can for James and Jahmene.”

“Are we singing together?” Harry sounds delighted, and then far away as he must ask over his shoulder, “Are we singing with Union J next week?” There’s a mutter George can’t hear and then Harry speaking through laughter says, “Yeah, you’re right. That’ll be fun.”

George scratches the back of his wrist and giggles. “Yeah, it’ll be a—it’s a good way to end the show.”

Harry’s voice is soft and gentle now, like he’s moved out of earshot from Louis and his jibes. “It’s a good way to start a career.”

George’s chest warms and it’s all himself. Harry is proud of him, he can hear that in his voice and feel the quiet contentment of his Alpha taking pride in him in his belly, but the melted-heartbeat rumble in his chest—that’s just George. He knows he sang well, he played guitar onstage in front of millions on television, he’s an omega who’s outlasted every Alpha competitor except Jahmene for a place in the finals. He will be performing onstage at Wembley Arena, performing for nearly 13,000 people who didn’t think he could do this. But he has.

It isn’t the massive stage of Madison Square Garden, but it’s a start. 

“Thank you,” George says. “Will you be home in time to vote for me next Saturday?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry says. “I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll, er—actually, I’ll be home Tuesday, and like, I thought, basically if you wanted, I thought maybe we could move some of your stuff into your new room. At my house, I mean. Just so like, whatever happens at the final, you have somewhere in London to go after the show, and it can be like—I had to buy all new stuff when Louis and I moved into our flat, yeah, and it took such a long time to stop missing my rug in my bedroom from home? So it’s nice to have stuff that’s just yours, I think.”

George bites the inside of his cheek. It’s just to keep from smiling, this time. “Okay. Yeah, sure. I don’t know what rehearsals will be like, but…”

“We can make it work,” Harry finishes for him.

George shifts his weight and smiles into the phone, although the awareness of how public the Corinthia corridors are is creeping up on him again. “I should go. My makeup’s starting to petrify.”

“You should do a charcoal mask,” Harry says. “They’re really nice. There’s one at my—our house, if you want.”

“It’s okay. I can wait.” George walks to the lifts, the same lift that betrayed them to the public, and pushes the button. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah. I love you,” Harry says softly. He doesn’t wait for George to respond before he adds, “Bye,” and rings off.

The lift doors slide open and George floats inside, mobile clutched to his chest with both hands. After the doors shut again, he forgets for a minute to press the number to Union J’s floor. The floor where they still get to stay for one more week—the last week, the last week of the X Factor and the last week before George moves into Harry Styles’ house for good.

It’s a beautiful house. Haunted, but George hasn’t been bothered by Harry’s ghost. It’s possible that only Harry can feel him. 

When the lift doors alight at the few remaining contestants’ floor, George pockets his mobile and waits to make sure that Christopher isn’t destroying the corridor like a vengeful hurricane the way he’d overturned every chair in the greenroom and thrown everything from Craft Services onto the floor, blind-drunk with a bottle in his hand and slurring about dams and knotsluts. The carpeted floors are clean, though, and the walls are quiet behind the closed doors. Maybe he’s passed out somewhere, then. Or maybe he’s already gone.

That would be nice.

George runs to his room anyway and keeps the keycard in his hand to shoulder inside quickly, before Christopher could barrel in after him in case he were lying in wait. 

“You missed the Baloney show,” Josh informs George from his lounging place on George’s bed, JJ spooned behind him. “I think James and Jahmene are ever-so-gently tucking him into bed now. Don’t worry.”

“In bed, or off the balcony?” Jaymi asks. He fills another hotel tea mug with champagne and holds it out in offering to George. “After what he said to you. And what he said to James. James is like the Hulk; that took guts and stupidity, even drunk.”

JJ just grunts and curls closer around Josh. “He’s lucky Josh held me back.”

“Of course he is.” Josh twists his neck to kiss JJ between the eyes. They’re still strange, the way they act like JJ is the omega when he isn’t. JJ smiles and nuzzles into Josh’s neck—it’s cute until he bites down, still possessive because Josh still has remnants of the scent of Heat on him from the rush to get to stage this morning.

George buries his face in his mug of champagne and is rewarded with bubbles up his nose. It’s nice to have the band all here after a show, and it’s a surprise, too. Usually Jaymi would be gone, home to Luton to be with Olly. But now there are so few people left that they must be sticking together more.

That makes it harder to look up from his drink and say, “Er, on Tuesday night, if rehearsal doesn’t go too late, I’m kinda moving into Harry’s house.”

“Lucky goose,” Jaymi says. “I read in the papers that house was £3million. Of course you’re the one to get such a splashy pad. You, with your… face.”

George sticks out his tongue. “He didn’t ask me to move in for my face. It’s—well, it’s mostly so he can stop having to ask Caroline over to water his plants when he’s on tour. But it was still nice of him. I have my own room, and he bought me CS6.”

“Dreamboat,” Josh says drily. 

“Why’d’you have your own room?” JJ asks curiously. “I thought you liked Harry now. I like Harry. I’d share a room with him.”

“Hey,” Josh whines, then pauses. “So would I. In a heartbeat.”

JJ bites Josh again and pulls him even closer. 

George nudges Josh’s shinbone with his toes. “Well, you can’t, because you have a JJ already and your hair isn’t curly. No quiffs allowed.”

“You hair isn’t curly either!” Jaymi exclaims, tipsy and triumphant and delighted as he hits George with a pillow. Champagne goes spraying over the bed and George squawks, indignant.

“Hey, I have to sleep here and now it’s all—you made my bed drunk!” 

Jaymi doesn’t look chastened at all as he keeps laughing, but he does stand and chivvy JJ and Josh off the bed. “Alright, little Georgie, I’ll clean it up for you. JJ, come help me. You can let go of Josh, you know. He won’t float away.”

“Yeah,” JJ agrees dully, following Jaymi to the door to get towels from housekeeping. “Unless Harry Styles comes toddling by.”

Josh gives JJ a wink, and the Alphas disappear.

“So,” Josh says, flopping onto Jaymi’s bed instead. George stays standing: Josh needs to lie down, even if his Heat is over. His knees will still be sore. “We’re in the final!”

“We are,” George agrees. “I’d’ve never believed it.”

“Can I tell you a secret? Me, neither,” Josh says. “I thought we were sort of a gimmick and we’d get cooked out. But I’m really glad we’re still here. I do think it’s thanks to you.”

“It’s all of us,” George demurs softly. He leans against the nightstand and shakes his champagne mug around a little, watching golden bubbles hiss and die against the ceramic sides. “I’m surprised you’re all here. I mean, not here like the X Factor still, here like my room. I’m—I thought you’d be with JJ, like you… usually are.”

Josh wrinkles his nose. “On the night after Heat? Are you kidding?” He shakes his head. “You know I think that’s not for talking about, but really, George. Honestly.”

“I thought you liked it,” George protests quietly. “Like—sex. I thought you liked that.”

“I do,” Josh agrees. He rolls onto his back and spreads his arms, shoulders and elbows and wrists all cracking with a sound like chalk dust, making George wince in sympathy. “Just not the night after Heat. And some other times. Sometimes I eat too much cheese.”

“Ew.” George giggles. He flops his champagne mug and watches some effervesce over the lip, dripping over his fingers. It almost tickles, the way the bubbles kiss his skin. “Does it—and do you just tell JJ, like. That you don’t like it then?”

Josh nods, his stiff pompadour whispering against Jaymi’s pillowcase. “Of course. You’re such an odd duck, George. Just because I like sex doesn’t mean I want it all the time.”

Little blue-green wriggly feelings move like champagne bubbles in George’s stomach. “And JJ’s okay with that?”

“If he weren’t, I’d try to get away,” Josh says evenly. “Besides, he feels the same. No one actually wants sex all the time, George, not even Alphas.” At the look on George’s face—huge eyes, pinched lips, a drying line of champagne on his cheek from the spill, his sticky fingers clutched tight around the impersonal white mug—Josh adds, “Not even Harry Styles, I bet.”

Harry’s never actually asked George for sex, has he. He’s even offered not to do it when George was in Heat, because he didn’t understand, he just didn’t understand how it worked—it wasn’t mean. It wasn’t because he was trying to be—he thought he was helping. Didn’t he?

But he still gets hard in his sleep and presses up against George’s hip. Even if he’s never come out and asked, he still wants it. Every night that they’ve slept in the same bed. Hasn’t he?

(George gets wet though, too, when he sleeps next to Harry. And he hasn’t asked for sex, either, not—not _that way_ , at least, not in the way that—that—Josh means.

Except that night after the club, when George and Harry crawled into George’s new blue bed and everything was so warm and they were both soft-boned with booze and the insides of George’s eyelids were still pulsating with colors in reverse of the lights that washed over them all night, he’d pulled Harry down over him while they were kissing. He’d bucked up against Harry’s leg. He’d whispered _the—like before_ , when Harry asked _what do you want?_

He had asked, after all. Hadn’t he?)

Josh nudges George’s leg. “What are you thinking, fluffy?”

“I don’t know,” George says honestly. “A lot’s happened really fast. Hasn’t it?”

Josh nods and then rests his head back against George’s pillow. “Yeah. And more for you.”

George lies down next to Josh, sets the mug of half-drunk champagne on the nightstand. “I’m glad you’re here with me. It’s nice not being alone.”

“It is,” Josh agrees. “But I have to say, I thought you were a right wizzer at auditions and in Vegas.”

A laugh startles out of George’s chest and he feels as bright as Josh’s light grapefruit scent when he grabs the pillow and hits Josh with it. “Same to you! I wasn’t the one who got us lost!”

The champagne spills onto the floor during their pillow fight, and George will get in trouble with housekeeping again, but for once, he doesn’t care.

* * *

Louis Walsh is so excited during their weekly Monday morning meeting that pound signs are practically floating out of his eyes. He can’t seem to stop touching George- and Josh’s knees, either, until the low rumbling sound in his office transpires not to be the radiator, but growls deep in JJ’s chest. Then he stops touching the omegas, but keeps right on praising himself for letting them through, for believing that they could stand up to the competition. Like he were the one who’d been onstage every week, or ever shown up to a vocal or choreography rehearsal. Like he were the one who’d kept going right on through Heat and intimidation and slurs and having to take pills every day.

 _Really_ , George thought as they left his office and Josh’s pout was so severe that even JJ had to poke his cheek and make sure he was a human and not a statue, _really, maybe omegas were the strong ones after everything was said and done._ He couldn’t imagine Louis Walsh finding a Bond just to make it through a competition so far from a sure thing. He had never found one, as far as George knew, not for anything. He couldn’t imagine Christopher being able to reign in his emotions enough to be seen as someone with tact and grace and not lost to the whims of his hormones. Josh had gone onstage this week still coming out of Heat with his bones soft and aching, and they had still been voted through. Josh still sang a _solo_.

George is proud of him, and he’s proud of himself, and he appreciates every emoji-filled text Harry sends with more praise. Even though he isn’t really sure what smiling poo has to do with having done a good job, it’s nice. Harry will be flying back from the United States overnight Monday, and then George makes what he’s started calling The Big Move—all capitals in his head—to Harry’s posh, haunted house.

The capitals are still there when he buzzes through the gate on Tuesday evening after rehearsals are over. It’s already dark, and George can see his breath as he trudges up the long walk. On either side of him, Harry’s front garden is endless and lonely and most of the windows are empty. Maybe he was wrong? Maybe Harry’s still in America? Maybe he meant next week?

But then the front room windows light together in a butyraceous golden blaze. Harry’s hair is a rumpled cloud where he’s silhouetted in the open doorway.

“Hiii,” Harry sings, grinning, the door of _their_ house wide open as he bounds down the front walk to take George’s bags. “Congratulations again!”

“Thank you again.” George giggles, because he deserves the accolades. He’s in the final of the X Factor. No matter what happens from now, that’s at least the same footing as One Direction had when they began.

“Come in, come in!” Harry holds the door open with one shoulder. He smells so good that George breathes a deep sigh of relief as he passes close enough that their arms brush, a gentle warm crackle that tells George’s bones that he’s home. Even though this is new and scary, it’s where he belongs—London, the final, and Harry’s house. All of it.

“I talked to Archie this morning,” Harry says as George toes off his shoes. “I didn’t mean to, really. I wanted to talk to your dad. But Archie gets to gabbing and he wouldn’t share the phone.”

George laughs. “What did you talk about?”

“Monsters,” Harry says. “He likes that our house has a ghost. He wants to come visit and meet the ghost horse.”

“Of course he does. He’ll bring his sword.” George means to say more, but his voice dies as he looks up at what Harry’s done to his house. Their house, truly.

Most of George’s things haven’t arrived yet, still spread between two small houses in Clevedon, but George can see that Harry’s conspired a bit either either Mum or Parisa—or both. A stack of horror film DVDs has joined Harry’s rom-coms on the shelf. There are blackout curtains in the windows of every room, not just George’s bedroom; he can be comfortable anywhere, even in the day leading up to a Heat. George’s own Harry Potter and Star Trek posters are in brand-new frames, ready to hang, leaning up against the fireplace. 

But what takes George aback—what swallows him up in pale sea-blue, the same sort of swimmy swollen rush he got from jumping off the end of the pier into the estuary and opened his eyes, watching the world shift around him into something alien—is the red-brick wall that holds the centerpiece of Harry’s front room. Before, all of One Direction’s accolades spread across it from end to end. Gold and platinum albums, pictures of Harry with Niall and Zayn and Liam—pictures of Harry with Louis. George admired it.

But now, the award albums are still there, but Harry’s picked through and saved only a few of the photographs. Enough that One Direction’s accolades only fit on half of the wall.

The other half is empty save for one framed A4 page from _Fabulous_. George’s big interview about their Bond, being an omega in the X Factor, and why he never went to university, all in small red block print beneath George’s grinning face and jumping legs. It had only come out two days before; Harry got home from New York yesterday, he must have bought it and had it framed first thing. 

“Your gold record can go next to it,” Harry offers quietly. “And like, if any articles have come out about the show that you really liked. Union J accomplishments, basically.”

And he believes it. George doesn’t need to reach through the Bond between them and feel for Harry’s sincerity, it’s just _there_. He wants George to succeed, and be happy, and do what he wants to do with his life. More than wanting it for George, though, he seems to really believe that it’s possible—more than possible, maybe even inevitable, and as much as George knows that he’s had people in his life who want all the best he can have, he’s never… Harry has real faith in George. It wasn’t a matter of setting aside a place that was already empty and saying that _someday George can share this space_. Harry made room for him without being asked; Harry was so proud that he saved George’s feature straight away. It’s his own space. And it’s equal to the space that Harry’s kept for himself—equal.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Harry says shyly. 

George turns and looks at Harry beside him. His lips are pursed and nervous and so, so red. There are messy strands of curls falling across his forehead and over his ears; Harry has a few wispy spokes of unshaven facial hair in odd corners of his jaw that he’d missed with a razor. There are spots on his forehead that George has never noticed before. His ears stick out, and his shoulders are stooped. But the line of his jaw is so sharp and his eyes are wide and clear. He isn’t perfect.

But he thinks of George as an equal. And that’s perfect for George. It’s something he wanted so much that he never let himself even begin to consider being able to get it.

“I don’t mind,” George murmurs. He leans over and kisses Harry’s cheek. “I love it.”

Harry smiles with his lips tucked between his teeth, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to be as glad as he is. George kisses his cheek again, and then Harry blushes and takes George’s luggage to the little blue bedroom.

George doesn’t follow quite yet. He feels a little dizzy. Harry’s singing, absent and low, from the direction of George’s bedroom, but George doesn’t follow yet—too much like a siren call, pulling him in before he can think.

He wants to think about all of this. He wants to look at his article framed on the wall, the way the platinum albums glint rainbows in the slices of sun that peek determinedly around the edges of the curtains, the care Harry took in framing these old £2 posters like they were works of art as expensive and original as his neon Emin slogans. But as much as George thinks, he never lets his thoughts brush up against the tender, still-forming pink conclusion lurking at the core of his thoughts. There’s still—he’s still anxious, learning to feel this out. And doubts are a lancet. He doesn’t want to break the truth into lies before he can tell it.

So he doesn’t. Instead George picks up the new frames of his old posters and weighs them in his hands. They’d kept him company from his first Heat until he left for London, all slowly accumulated over the years. 

His room in this house shouldn’t be exactly the same. Instead, it can have some real graphic art on the walls, too. Maybe Harry will let him paint. Maybe he’ll paint anyway, while he’s minding the house alone with Dick the Ghost and Harry’s off touring in Argentina or Arkansas or Australia, somewhere. And then maybe George will fly out there, too, for one night of horrible Heat but a week of holiday, and he’ll take photos and frame those, as well. They’ll have adventures.

George has always wanted adventures, and coming to London was his biggest to date. But maybe, really, his adventure with Harry is only beginning. Now that he might be brave enough to start.

He carefully selects one Harry Potter poster and one Star Trek for the little blue room, reminders for himself of the rewards of adventure and how far he’s come from his own dull-gray home, and follows Harry’s voice down the corridor.

The suitcases are on the bed, but Harry isn’t. He’s just standing in the middle of the floor, toes pointed together. He smiles at George. “I thought maybe you got lost.”

“No,” George promises. “I know my way.” He rests the Goblet of Fire poster up against the baseboards near his desk. “Thanks for ringing my mum and having her send these. Although honestly she probably liked the Hogwarts stuff out of the house. She might miss the Star Treks. I’ll have to check and see if she swiped any.”

“My mum threw out my Saturdays posters when I left,” Harry says. He sounds genuinely disgruntled, and George reaches out to squeeze his hand. There’s such a pale white gnawing bashful anxiousness in the pit of George’s stomach, crawling its way across the air from Harry, that he almost laughs, ticklish. “I’m glad you’re glad, though.”

George squeezes Harry’s fingers before teasing, carefully, “How will you know which ‘Harry’ I’m talking to if Potter’s on the wall?”

“Well,” Harry says slowly, “I hope I could tell from context. I’m shit at expelliarmus.”

George brightens inside his chest, Gryffindor red and gold, and he can’t help poking Harry’s side a bit as he mutters, “Well, you are disarming.” He takes the bag Harry left on the bed and unzips it, pointedly not looking at Harry as he starts to remove folded t-shirts and jumpers. He leaves his pants in the bottom of the bag, because even though Harry’s seen them, even bought him some, it’s embarrassing. 

When he does look up, Harry is watching him with quiet eyes. “If you don’t need my help, I can go fix dinner. Or order in, if you want a takeaway or a pizza or something.”

“Whatever you want is f—” George takes a deep breath and looks back down at his shirts. He picks some fluff off of the chest of his favorite maroon t-shirt, presses his lips together, and swallows. What does he want? “Er—like, if you feel like getting a Chinese, that’d be alright. I guess. If you don’t, that’s fine, too.”

“We can,” Harry says. He pauses and waffles, then leans forward and quickly kisses George’s forehead. Sugar pumpkin and ghosts, gingersnaps and frost. “I’ll be in the living room whenever you’re done here. I’ll let you know when the food’s arrived.”

It doesn’t actually take much time to empty the luggage that George brought from the Corinthia. He’s been living out of a suitcase for three months now, and most of what he had with him was already set to go on Sunday, when he’d been so sure that Union J were going to be given the boot. When George takes a soft gray jumper out of the bottom of his bag, Harry’s scent floats off the cashmere. It’s faded, dusty; something in its staleness is so distinctly un-Harry that it makes George sad. 

Even when Harry is asleep, he’s warm and bright. There’s something _wrong_ about the idea of his warmth fading, and it makes George ball up the jumper and throw it straightaway into the laundry basket for washing. Then, at least, it will smell like a blank slate.

Maybe he’ll nick it off Harry again before One Direction leaves on tour. Or maybe he won’t; probably there are whole rooms of the house that George hasn’t seen yet that smell enough like Harry that he’ll just… grow immune to it.

Somehow, though, privately and quietly in a thrum from his chest to his belly, he doesn’t really think so. He hasn’t grown immune to Harry yet, even though it doesn’t hurt to be away from him anymore. Not physically, at least. But that’s better—he’d rather know that he’s here because his mind prefers it, and not just his bones. He’d rather make his decisions about the Bond with his brain than whatever’s between his legs, now that he can. And he _can_ , even if he hasn’t always. They can’t ever start over, but—

George works his hands together and looks at the little blue bed, listens to Harry’s rough voice singing through the walls, smells the faint wisps of firewood and tannic leaves and buckwheat honey that Harry left on George’s luggage, on the blankets. He closes his eyes and feels out the way Harry is as tentative as he is confident, always softly pulsing purple behind the rest of his feelings because he’s been hurt and bruised before, but is determined to heal. George wants to learn that confidence. And—and maybe he wants to help Harry stop hurting so much. After all, Harry’s helped him to learn that life doesn’t necessarily have to hurt just because of who you are.

He bites the nails of one hand and keeps still. Looks again at the blue bed and wonders suddenly why he’s never seen Harry’s—they’ve never spent the night in a room that wasn’t George’s territory, even when this was really just Harry’s house. This is _his_ room and whatever George wants is alright in it. He can’t stop staring at the small blue bed.

And then he’s not in his room anymore, walking down the corridor and following Harry’s soft crooning that he’s _tired of sleeping alone_.

Harry is sitting in a butterfly pose on the kitchen floor, singing, while playing Pudding Monsters on his iPhone with one hand and holding a half-eaten banana in the other. George’s fingers touch his own lips again as he looks down at him, so completely strange and so unlike any Alpha that George could have pictured. 

“You alright?” Harry asks. He’s looking up at George, and the need to please is so plain on his face that he’s like a puppy, tail perked that his favorite master is home. “Thirsty or anything?”

George shakes his head. Doesn’t trust himself to speak yet. 

Harry’s eyebrows pull down low and woolly and confused. “What’s up?”

“I want—I just wanted to find you,” George says, and sits down on the floor next to Harry. Their knees touch, knobbly, and George rests his head against Harry’s shoulder, face tucked up close to the neck of Harry’s t-shirt so he can soak up all of his scent. Even with the banana, it’s wonderful. “Feels better when I’m with you.”

He looks up at Harry’s face as best he can through his eyelashes, and then pokes at the dimple shadowing Harry’s cheek as he smiles. 

“I like that,” Harry says carefully. The empty banana skin gets thrown over his shoulder into the bin. It sounds like maybe he missed, but neither of them looks. “But what does? Sitting on the floor, waiting for a Chinese?”

“Yes.” George keeps his fingers on Harry’s skin even, trailing down to touch the freckles dotting his Earth’s apple. “I’d rather sit and do nothing with you than anyone else.”  
 


End file.
